

Class. 
Book. 



>^ 



KAROW COLLECTION 

Not to l;e taken from Library 



Napoleon, Emperor. 
From an engraving by Benoist Je, after J. Goubaml. 

Paris (no date). 



A METRICAL HISTORY 

OF THE 

LIFE AND TIMES OF 

Napoleon Bonaparte 



A COLLECTION OF POEMS AND SONGS, MANY FROM 

OBSCURE AND ANONYMOUS SOURCES, SELECTED 

AND ARRANGED WITH INTRODUCTORY 

NOTES AND CONNECTING NARRATIVE 



BY 

WILLIAM J. HILLIS 



WITH 25 PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTR. 



G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 

27 WEST TWENTV-THIRD STREET -^4 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND 

S;^c f\mckcrboclicr |)rcss 
1S96 



^ 






:^ 



Gift 

Mrs. Anna Bolle Karo'w 

1012 

Copyright, 1895 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
Entered at Stationers^ Hall, London 



"Cbe Tknfcftetbochcc press, mew tRocbelle, m. l. 



PREFACE. 

I HAVE no apology to offer for placing before the public 
the following collection of poems. If my scheme pos- 
sesses no other merit than that of being unique, perhaps 
it will not be wholly condemned. The collection is by 
no means complete ; neither have I sought to make it so. 
From the vast number of poems published, hid away, 
and forgotten, I have dug out and retained only such as 
suited my fancy, and which go to make up a sort of 
poetical history of the life and times of the Great 
Emperor ; leaving behind me far more in number than 
I have used. 

Some years ago, and long before the present Napoleonic 
fever had taken hold of the people, I had occasion to use 
a certain little poem relating to the death of the illustri- 
ous exile at St. Helena. Much to my surprise, when I 
came to look for it, I could not find it. My friends were 
in the same quandary ; they knew the poem, but could 
not locate the author, and no dictionary of writers or of 
subjects seemed able to help me out of my difificulty. 
In my search for the poem wanted, and ultimately un- 
earthed, I found so many others relating to the French 
Revolution, the Consulate, and the Empire, which were 
before unknown to me, that I determined to persevere 



IV PREFACE. 

in my hunt for these fugitive verses, and to make a col- 
lection of those found, for the purpose of adding the 
volume, in manuscript, to my own private library, con- 
sisting mainly of works concerning the wonderful Corsican 
and his most remarkable career. When my collection 
was as complete as I could make it, I discovered I had a 
poem for nearly every incident of note in the life and 
history of Napoleon, from his birth to his second funeral, 
and the idea struck me that, by arranging the poems in 
chronological order as to the dates of the incidents por- 
trayed, and by introducing each with a brief recital of 
the facts upon which the poem was based, I might make 
for myself a novel, if not a perfectly reliable, history. I 
had then no intention of putting my work into book 
form, and it was only at the earnest solicitation of a 
friend, in whose judgment I had the utmost confidence, 
that I consented to do so. Some of the poems will be 
familiar to the general reader ; the greater number, how- 
ever, I believe, will be new. In my selection I have dis- 
regarded the fact of whether the poem chosen was writ- 
ten in favour of or against the subject of it, and I have 
endeavoured, as much as possible, to use only the poetry 
of contemporary writers. How far I have succeeded in 
making a creditable selection, and how near I have come 
to compiling a poetical history of the " Man of Destiny," 
the public must be the judge. Taking advantage of the 
work of others, I have merely filled in the gaps and made 
the proper connections. For so much of the work, and 
for the taste and judgment displayed in the choice of 
matter used, I am responsible. 



PREFACE. V 

The illustrations are reproductions from my own col- 
lection, and from those of my friend, Mr. Carlos Wilson 
of Boston, to whom I am greatly indebted for the valua- 
ble aid he has so cheerfully given me in allowing me 
the free use of his very extensive library and print 
collection. 



CONTENTS. 



Corsica .... 

Napoleon's Cradle Song 

The School-Boy King . 

The Battle OF Change (1789) 

" ^A Ira "... 

Mirabeau Dying 

The Massacre of Avignon 

The Marseillaise . 

La Carmagnole 

The Roaring of the Sea 

(1793) 
The Awakening of the 

People 
An Incident in the Reign o 

Terror 
La Tricoteuse 
Charlotte Corday 
The Girondins 
Madame Roland . 
Death of Robespierre . 

Madame Tallien . 
The Grand Army . 
The Song of Departure 
The Battle of Lodi 

Petit Jean 

Napoleon and the Sphinx 



Anna Letitia Barbauld 

Anon. 

Walter Thornlmry 

Charles Mackay . 

Anon. 

William Ross Wallace 

Bessie Rayner Parkes 

Roitget de Lisle 

Anon. 

Charles Mackay . 

'y. M. Sourigueres 



Mrs. H. E. G. Arey 


46 


Walter Thornbury 


48 


Anon. 


52 


Anon. 


57 


Anon. 


58 


Hen7'y Howard 




Brotvnell . 


60 


Anon. 


64 


Victor Hugo 


67 


M. y. Chenier . 


70 


yulia Augusta May- 




nard 


76 


Mary A._ Barr . 


79 


Charles Mackay . 


82 



PAGE 

4 
7 

12 
16 
20 
24 
26 
31 
34 

38 

42 



CONTENTS. 







PAGE 


The Battle of the Nile 


William Lisle Boiules 


85 


Casabianca .... 


Felicia Hemans . 


90 


Napoleon in Bivouac . 


Ferdi?iand Freiligrath 


93 


The Battle of Alexandria . 


"yames Montgomery 


97 


Bonaparte .... 


George Huddesford 


100 


The Bells of Fontainebleau 


Walter Thornbury 


1 12 


Napoleon Crossing the Alps 


James William Miller 


"5 


Napoleon at Isola Bella 


Lord Lytton 


118 


The Battle of Marengo . . 


Robert Mack 


121 


To Napoleon .... 


M. Delandine 


129 


The Battle of Hohenlinden 


Thomas Campbell 


131 


1801 


William WordswortJi . 


^34 


The Star of " the Legion 






OF Honour" . 


Lord Byron 


136 


Toussaint L'Ouverture 


John G. Whittier 


139 


The Consul, Bonaparte 


Anon. 


141 


Napoleon's Conference 


Anon. 


147 


A New Song of Old Sayings 


Anon. 


151 


The History of Humbug . . 


Anon. . . . 


153 


The Bard's Incantation . . 


Sir Walter Scott . 


155 


Napoleon and the British 






Sailor .... 


Thomas Campbell 


158 


On the Death of the Duke 






d'Enghien 


Henry Kirke White 


162 


On a Picture of Napoleon 






IN his Robes 


Anon. 


165 


On the Rumour of a War 






with Austria . 


M. Richaud 


169 


The Grenadier's Adieu to 






the Camp at Boulogne . 


Barre, Rodet, and Des- 






fontaines . 


172 


Trafalgar .... 


William C. Bennett . 


175 


Before Austerlitz 


Walter Thornbury 


181 


AUSTERLITZ . . . 


Anon. 


182 


Ode to the Column of Napo- 






leon 


Victor Hugo 


184 



CONTENTS. 



The Queen of Prussia's Ride 
German Song (1806) 
The Battle of Eylau . 
Napoleon at Gotha 
Inscription for a Monument 

AT ViMEIRO 

Battle of Corunna 

Burial of Sir John Moore 

(1809) . . . 
The Maid of Saragossa 
The Benediction . 
Incident ofthe French Camp 
Wagram; or, Victory in Death 
SCHILL ... . . 

Andrew Hofer 
Talavera .... 

Lament of Josephine 
Napoleon and the Mother . 
The Flight of Massena, or 

THE Prophet Mistaken . 
Inscription for the Lines of 

Torres Vedras 

Barrosa 

Albuera 

The Battle of Salamanca . 
The Battle of Vittoria 
The March to Moscow 
Vive l'Empereur . 
Borodino 

The Jewelled Glove . 
The Burning of Moscow 
The French Army in Russia 
The Retreat from Moscow . 
The Father of the Regiment 
Passage of the Beresina 



PAGE 

A. L. A. Smith . . 188 

Ernest Moritz Arndt . 190 

Isaac MacLellan . 194 

Bayard Taylor . . 199 

Robert Southey . . 203 
William Lisle Bowles 207 

Rev. Charles Wolfe . 208 

Charles Stvain . .211 

Francois Coppe'e . -215 

Robert Browning . 220 

Anon. . . .224 

Ernest Moritz Arndt . 230 

y^ulius Mosen . . 233 

Lord Byron . . 237 

Mary E. Hewitt . 241 

Edxvard y. O'Reilly . 243 

Anon. . . . 245 



Robert Southey 


248 


Robert Southey 


251 


Capel Lofft . 


253 


William T. Fitzgerald 


255 


William Glen 


258 


Robert Southey . 


261 


R. Montgomery . 


269 


From the Russian of 




Pushkin . 


273 


Anon .... 


277 


Col. Eidolon 


283 


George Croly 


289 


Victor Hugo 


292 


Walter Thornbury 


296 


Lydia H. Sigourney 


300 



CONTENTS. 



The Flight . . . . 
To Napoleon Flying from 

WiLNA . . . . 

The Retreat from Moscow . 
Bonaparte'sReturnto Paris, 

Incog. ... 
The French Army in Russia 

(1812-13) . 
Song of Liberty 
The Visit to the Military 

Hospital . 
Boney and Duroc . 
The Battle of Dresden 
The Song of the Sword 
On the Death of General 

Moreau . 
Blocker's Ball 
The Battle of Leipzig . 
poniatowski . 

Prince Wrede's Death . 
Blucher at the Rhine . 
The Gauls and Franks 

Ode .... 

Letter from The King of 

Rome, April 9, 1814 
The Parting with the 

Eagles, 1814 . 
Ode on the Deliverance of 

Europe, 1814 . 
Marie Louise . 
Ode to Napoleon . 
The Two Grenadiers . 

Josephine 



Aiion. 

R. A. Davenport 
Walter Thonibury 

A /ion. 

William Wordsworth 
La Motte Fouqu^ 

Walter Thonibury 
Anon . 

Mrs. H. E. G. Arey 
'Karl Theodor Koerner 

yohti A. Williams 
Adolf Ludwig Pollen 
Ernest Moritz Arndt 



y^ean Pierre de 

ranger 
Arthur Rapp 
August Kopiseh . 
J^ean Pierre de 

ranger 
Robert Southey 

Anon . 

J Falter Thonibury 



Be- 



Be 



PAGE 

3°9 

315 

318 
321 

324 

328 

III 

338 
339 

342 

345 
347 
349 

351 
354 

361 



John H. Merivale . 368 
Anon. . . .373 

Lord Byron . .376 

yean Pierre de Be- 

r anger . . -382 

Rev. Joseph H. Niehols 387 



CONTENTS. 



Napoleon Bonaparte . 
Petition for Free Entrance 
TO the Tuileries 

The Island Fiend . 
The Polish Lancers 
Napoleon at Melun 
Bonaparte in Paris 
The Hundred Days 

Before Waterloo , 
The Dance of Death . 
Waterloo 
Ney's Charge at Waterloo 
An Episode of Waterloo 
After the Battle of Water 
LOO .... 

The Famous Victory 

A Visit to Bonaparte in Ply 

MOUTH Sound . 
Napoleon's Last Look . 
The Death of Murat . 
On the Death of Marshai 

Ney .... 
Madame Lavalette 
The Star of the Legion of 

Honour . 
Description of St. Helena 
Epistle from Tom Crib to 

Big Ben 
To Sir Hudson Lowe 
The Eaglet Mourned . 
Death of Napoleon 
The Death-Bed of Napoleon 



L. M. Sargent 



PAGE 

39^ 



Jean Pierre de Be- 

ravgcr . . -393 

Anon. . . . 397 

Anon. . . . 400 

Sarah R. Barnes . 403 

Dr. J^ohn Wolcot . 409 

y^ean Pierre de Be- 

ranger . . .421 

Lord Byron . .425 

Sir Walter Seott . 428 
Douglas B. W. Sladen 434 

Anon. . . . 439 

Franeis S. Saltus . 444 

y^ean Franfois-Casimir 

Delavigne . -447 
Witithrop M. Praed . 45 1 

Anon. . . -455 

Bartholomew Simmons 459 
Thomas Atkinson . 464 



Anon. 


■ 467 


Anon. 


• 470 


G. W. Cutter 


. 472 


Anon. 


. 476 


Thomas Moore . 


• 477 


Thomas Moore . 


. 480 


Victor Hugo 


. 481 


Isaac MacLellan . 


. 485 


Mrs. Warfield 


atid 


Mrs. Lee 


. 487 



xii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Dead Napoleon i. . Anon: . . . 490 

The Grave o^ Napoleon C. A. Htirlbert . . 494 

Napoleon .... Manzmi \ . . . 496 

Napoleon's Grave . . . Richard Henry Wilde 499 
On the Death of the Duke 

OF Reichstadt . . Emma C. Embury . 502 
The Bronze Statue of Napo- 
leon ..... Auguste Barbier . 
The Disinterment . . . Bartholofnezv Simmons 512 
Napoleon's Return . . Miss Wallace 
The Second Funeral of Na- 
poleon .... Anon. 
The Return of Napoleon 

from St. Helena . Lydia H. Sigourney 
Invocation to the Shade of 

the Emperor . . . Prince Louis Napoleon 533 

Napoleon . . . . R. S. S. Andros . . 537 



506 
512 
519 

524 

528 



LIST OF PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE 

Napoleon, Emperor Frontispiece 

From an Engraving by Benoist, after Goubaud. 

Marie Antoinette 19 

From an Engraving by Le Vachex. 

MiRABEAU 23 

From an Engraving by Le Vachex. 

RouGET DE Lisle 29 

From an Etching by E. H. Garrett. 

Louis XVI 34 

From an Engraving by Le Vachex. 

Charlotte Corday 52 

From an Engraving by Le Vachex. 

Robespierre 60 

Artist and Engraver of the origiiial unknown. 

Napoleon, Commander of the Army of Italy .... 73 
From an Engraving by f . B. L. Afassard, after J. B. F. 
Mas sard. 

Napoleon, First Consul iii 

From an Engraving by Le Vachex. 

Dessaix 121 

From an Engraving by Elizabeth G . Lderhan, after Gue'rin, 

Nelson 174 

From an Engraving by She/ton, after Devis. 
xiii 



Xiv LIST OF PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS. 



PAGE 



Louise, Queen of Prussia 187 

From an Engraving by Maria Anne Bourlier, after Dahling. 

Talleyrand 203 

From an Engraving by Le Vachex. 

Macdonald 223 

From an Engraving by Ilaller, after Gumoens. 

Massena 244 

From an Engraving by Fiesinger, after Bonne-maison. 

Alexander 1 272 

From an Engraving by Cardon, after KiUhetchen. 

Napoleon, Emperor 314 

From an Engraving by IVilson. 

MOREAU ' . . . 337 

From an Engraving by Elizabeth G. Herhan, after Gudrin. 

Blocker 349 

From an Engraving by Swaine, after Rehberg. 

Marie Louise 373 

From an Engraving by Bollinger, after Monsorno. 

Josephine 386 

From an Engraving by Dean, after an Original Miniattire. 

Wellington 423 

From an Engraving by Fleischman. 

Ney 438 

From an Engraving by Kennerly. 

MURAT 463 

From an Engraving by Rosmcesler, after Gros. 

Napoleon II 501 

From an Engraving by Raimis, after PliiUppoleatiX. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

The editor of this volume makes appreciative acknow- 
ledgment of the courtesy of the following publishers and 
individuals who have granted permission for the use in his 
compilation of certain poems which are still protected by 
American or English copyright : 

Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. ; D. Appleton & Co. ; Mac- 
millan & Co. ; Smith, Elder, & Co. ; George Routledge 
& Sons ; Chatto & Windus ; Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co. ; 
Seeley & Co. ; Whittaker & Co. ; W. J. Linton ; and 
Francis H. Saltus. 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE 

AND TIMES OF NAPOLEON 

BONAPARTE. 



A 
METRICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND TIMES 

OF 

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 



CORSICA. 



The island of Corsica is situated in the Mediterranean 
sea, about one hundred miles from the coast of France, 
and almost directly south of Genoa and west of Rome. 
The village of Ajaccio is on the western coast of the 
island, and it was there, on the fifteenth day of August, 
1769, that Napoleon Bonaparte, the son of Charles Bona- 
parte and Letitia Ramolino, was born. 

Of thirteen children born to these parents, eight sur- 
vived, of whom, as matter of age. Napoleon was second ; 
but who, in reality, from early manhood was the recog- 
nised head of the family. Charles Bonaparte died when 
Napoleon was sixteen years old, and it was to his mother 
that the future Emperor was indebted for that strength 
of character and brilliancy of intellect which enabled him, 
alone and unaided, within the short space of less than 
twenty years, to transform himself from a poor unknown 
3 



4 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Corsican sub-lieutenant into the greatest character of an- 
cient or modern history. Perhaps some of the qualities 
which went to make up this most remarkable man may 
be attributed to his birthplace, rugged Corsica, so well 
pictured in the following lines : 

CORSICA. 

Anna Letitia Barbauld. 

How raptured fancy burns, while warm in thought 

I trace the pictured landscape ; while I kiss 

With pilgrim lips devout the sacred soil 

Stained with the blood of heroes. Cyrnus, hail ! 

Hail to thy rocky, deep indented shores, 

And pointed cliffs, which hear the chafing deep 

Incessant foaming round thy shaggy sides. 

Hail to thy winding bays, thy sheltering ports, 

And ample harbours, which inviting stretch 

Their hospitable arms to every sail : 

Thy numerous streams, that bursting from the cliffs 

Down the steep channelled rock impetuous pour 

With grateful murmur : on the fearful edge 

Of the rude precipice, thy hamlets brown 

And straw-roofed cots, which from the level vale 

Scarce seen, amongst the craggy hanging cliffs 

Seem like an eagle's nest aerial built. 

Thy swelling mountains, brown with solemn shade 

Of various trees, that wave their giant arms 

O'er the rough sons of freedom ; lofty pines, 

And hardy fir, and ilex ever green, 

And spreading chestnut, with each humbler plant. 

And shrub of fragrant leaf, that clothes their sides. 

With living verdure; whence the clustering bee 

Extracts her golden dews : the shining box 



CORSICA. 5 

And sweet-leaved myrtle, aromatic thyme, 

The prickly juniper, and the green leaf 

Which feeds the spinning worm ; while glowing bright 

Beneath the various foliage, wildly spreads 

The arbutus, and rears his scarlet fruit 

Luxuriant, mantling o'er the craggy steeps ; 

And thy own native laurel crowns the scene. 

Hail to thy savage forests, awful, deep ; 

Thy tangled thickets, and thy crowded woods, 

The haunt of herds untamed ; which sullen bound 

From rock to rock with fierce, unsocial air, 

And wilder gaze, as conscious of the power 

That loves to reign amid the lonely scenes 

Of unequalled nature ; precipices huge. 

And tumbling torrents ; trackless deserts, plains 

Fenced in with guardian rocks, whose quarries teem 

"With shining steel, that to the cultured fields 

And sunny hills which wave with bearded grain, 

Defends their homely produce. Liberty, 

The mountain goddess, loves to range at large 

Amid such scenes, and on the iron soil 

Prints her majestic step. For these she scorns 

The green enamelled vales, the velvet lap 

Of smooth savannahs, where the pillowed head 

Of luxury reposes ; balmy gales, 

And bowers that breathe of bliss. For these, when first 

This isle, emerging like a beauteous gem 

From the dark bosom of the Tyrrhene main. 

Reared its fair front, she marked it for her own. 

And with her spirit warmed. Her genuine sons, 

A broken remnant, from the generous stock 

Of ancient Greece, from Sparta's sad remains. 

True to their high descent, preserved unquenched 

The sacred fire through many a barbarous age ; 

Whom nor the iron rod of cruel Carthage, 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Nor the dread sceptre of imperial Rome, 
Nor bloody Goth, nor grisly Saracen, 
Nor the long galling yoke of proud Liguria, 
Could crush into subjection. Still unquelled 
They rose superior, bursting from their chains. 
And claimed man's dearest birthright, liberty : 
And long, through many a hard unequal strife 
Maintained the glorious conflict ; long withstood, 
With single arm, the whole collected force 
■ Of haughty Genoa and ambitious Gaul. 



NAPOLEON'S CRADLE SONG. 

On his way from Egypt to France in 1799, Napoleon 
landed at Ajaccio, where he had not been since he quitted 
Corsica, a poor nobody, in 1793. Among the friends he 
visited while at that place was the old lady who had 
nursed him as a babe. With this good old body he sat 
and conversed for some time, and when he left her, it was 
with a promise not to forget her in the future. This 
promise he made good, as soon as he became Consul, by 
settling upon her a pension of fifty napoleons a year, 
which pension was doubled when he came to be Emperor. 

The following is said to be the lullaby song, which this 
worthy old dame sung to her little charge during his 
infancy : 

napoleon's cradle song. 



Lovely babe, my bosom's darling, 
In thy cradle sweetly sleeping, 

May that power who gave thee to us 
Still retain thee in his keeping, 

Hear thy faithful nurse's prayer, 

And make thy infant years his care ! 

Heaven inspire thy heart with virtue, 
Fill with Christian faith thv breast ! 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Make thee brave, advent'rous, darling, 

Always in thy projects blest ! 
Raise thy soul 'bove idle fears, 
And give thee all a Nestor's years ! 

Should in riper age, his mother 

From her child withdraw her cares. 

Send him, mighty God ! that safely 
He may pass through mortal snares, 

And the paths of danger shun. 

The guide thou gavest to Tobit's son. 

Gracious Heaven, the fortune grant him 
Of the patriarch Jacob's race ! — 

Founder of a mighty nation ! — 
And may equal rank and place 

Be by him in courts obtain'd 

As were by Hebrew Joseph gain'd ! 

May the Trojan's noble nature. 
Heart of my dear heart, be thine ! 

May thy valour round thy temples 
All the Roman laurels twine ! 

And may science with the lore 

Of Athens rich thy bosom store ! 

May the wisdom, too, inspire thee 
Heaven on Solomon bestow'd, 

With his wealth, his power, his honours- 
Who a temple raised to God ! — 

But ne'er like him mayst thou stray 

From Virtue's path to Folly's way ! 

May the gentle Abie's mildness, 
Who the favour won of Heaven, 



NAPOLEON'S CRADLE SONG. 

And the strength of mighty Samson 

Be to thee abundant given ! 
With Job's patience, piety, 
And David's boundless clemency ! 

May that power which guided Judith 
Be alike thy constant guide, 

When, Bethulia's wrongs avenging, 
She by night undaunted hied 

Toward the camp, and backward sped 

With cruel Holofernes' head ! 

Of the learned Jeremiah 

Heaven on thee the memory shower ! 
Give thee all the address of Moses 

When defying Pharaoh's power. — 
He the bonds of Israel broke, 
And freed them from his tyrant yoke ! 

From the universal deluge 

If by Heaven was Noah spared, 

So, my son, in every danger 
Be by thee like mercy shared ! 

Through life's quicksands may thy bark 

Be safely steer'd as Noah's ark ! 

Be thou from the snares defended 
Of thy foes, concealed or known. 

As of old the holy children 
In the fiery furnace thrown! 

Or as righteous Daniel when 

Contending in the lion's den ! — 

Let the firmness of Saint Peter 
My sweet infant's bosom fill. 

Whom the angel drew from prison ! — 
Yet, Great God ! protect him still 



lO A METRICAL JH STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

From the sin, the dread offence, 
Which caused his tears, his penitence. 

His be, too, the faith of Thomas, 
Who, when Jesus' wounded side 

He had touch'd no longer doubting 
Preach'd his Saviour glorified ! 

Let him share Mathias' fate. 

Who sits by Jesus' throne in state ! 

Conqueror of the offending Hebrews, 

Titus, gallant chief, were you ; 
So mayst thou, my bosom's darling, 

Turkish infidels subdue ! 
That at length by land or sea 
All heresy suppress'd may be ! 

May great Heaven, thy sword directing. 
Make thee still his constant care ! 

From captivity defend thee. 
Give thee victory everywhere ! 

Till life's varying chances past. 

Thine eyelids close in peace at last ! 

In these strains a love as perfect 
As a mother's self could bear 

To her infant, — God of mercies ! 
Breathes my soul its ardent prayer : 

With more true devotion fired 

Than e'er the hermit Paul inspired. 

Thus concluding its petitions, 
In a word to thee it prays 

He may love, adore, and fear thee. 
Laud and praise thy name always ! 

And while here he shall abide 

His days be blest and sanctified ! 



THE SCHOOL-BOY KING. 

Of Napoleon's early childhood little is positively known. 
Accepting the corroborated record, as it stands, it would 
appear that he was a child with a disposition and a man- 
ner peculiarly his own. Not a loving or a companionable 
boy, but rather of a sullen, retiring nature ; melancholy 
and irritable in his temperament and impatient of restraint. 
While his companions were enjoying themselves at play, 
natural to their age, he would wander off by himself and 
spend hours, with no other company than his own 
thoughts. There is still to be seen in Corsica the isolated 
rock, known as " Napoleon's Grotto." Tradition tells us 
that this was the favourite resort of the child, destined to 
become the conqueror of the world. He, himself, has 
said : " In my infancy I was extremely headstrong ; noth- 
ing ever awed me ; nothing disconcerted me. I was 
quarrelsome, mischievous ; I was afraid of nobody ; I 
beat one; I scratched another; I made myself formidable 
to the whole family." 

At the age of ten Napoleon entered the Military School 
at Brienne, near Paris, where he remained upwards of five 
years. His career while at that school is very aptly and 
concisely told in the following verses: 
II 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

THE SCHOOL-BOY KING. 

Walter Thornbury. 
Le Pere Petrault shut Virgil up 

Just as the clock struck ten ; 
" This little Bonaparte," he said, 

" Is one of Plutarch's men. 
To see him with his massive head, 

Gripped mouth, and swelling brow, 
Wrestle with Euclid, — there he sat 

Not half an hour from now." 

The good old pedagogue his book 

Put slowly in its place ; 
" That Corsican," he said, " has eyes 

Like burning-glasses ; race 
Italian, as his mother said ; 

Barred up from friend and foe, 
He toils all night, inflexible, 

h'orging it blow by blow. 

" I know his trick of thought, the way 

He covers up his mouth : 
One hand like this, the other clenched, — 

Those eyes of the hot South. 
The little Csesar, how he strides, 

Sleep-walking in the sun. 
Only awaking at the roar 

Of the meridian gun. 

" I watched him underneath my book 

That day he sprung the mine, 
For when the earth-wall rocked and reeled. 

His eyes were all a-shine ; 
And when it slowly toppled down. 

He leaped up on the heap 



THE SCHOOL-BOY KING. 1 3 

With fiery haste, — just as a wolf 
Would spring upon a sheep. 

" Pichegru, Napoleon's monitor, 

Tells me he 's dull and calm, 
Tenacious, firm, submissive, — yes, 

Our chain is on his arm. 
Volcanic natures, such as his, 

I dread ; — may God direct 
This boy to good, the evil quell, 

His better will direct. 



" Here is his Euclid book, — the ink 

Still wet upon the rings ; 
These are the talismans some day 

He '11 use to fetter kings. 
To train a genius like this lad 

I 've prayed for years, — for years ; 
But now I know not whether hopes 

Are not half-choked by fears. 

" Last Monday, when they built that fort 

With bastions of snow, 
The ditch and spur and ravelin. 

And terraced row on row, 
'T was Bonaparte who cut the trench, 

Who shaped the line of sap, — 
A year or two, and he will be 

First in war's bloody gap. 

" I see him now upon the hill. 

His hands behind his back. 
Waving the tri-colour that led 

The vanguard of attack ; 



14 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And there, upon the trampled earth, 

The ruins of the fort, 
This Bonaparte, the school-boy king, 

Held his victorious court. 

" To see him give the shouting crowd 

His little hand to kiss, 
You 'd think him never meant by God 

For any lot but this. 
And then with loud exulting cheers. 

Upon their shoulders borne, 
He rode with buried Caesar's pride 

And Alexander's scorn. 

" Ah ! I remember, too, the day 

The fire-balloon went up ; 
It burnt away into a star 

Ere I went off to sup ; 
But he stood weeping there alone 

Until the dark night came. 
To think he had not wings to fly 

And catch the passing flame. 

" Oh, he is meant for mighty things, 

This leader of my class ; — 
But there 's the bell that rings for me. 

So let the matter pass. 
You see that third-floor window lit. 

The blind drawn half-way down ; 
That 's Bonaparte's, — he 's at it now, — 

It makes the dunces frown." 



THE BATTLE OF CHANGE, 1789. 

Napoleon left Brienne at the close of the year 1784, to 
enter the Military School at Paris. He was then just past 
his fifteenth year, the minimum age which would allow 
him entrance to the Paris school. Three of the best 
scholars at Brienne were annually passed to Paris, and 
the fact that Napoleon was one of the three passed in 
1784, proves the high rank he had attained, even at the 
early age of fifteen. He remained at the Military School 
in Paris not quite a year, when he obtained the appoint- 
ment of second-lieutenant in a regiment of artillery. The 
year past had been, for him, one of hard, unceasing toil, 
and probably no lieutenant of the age of sixteen ever 
entered the army better prepared to push himself for- 
ward, or to take advantage of every opportunity offered, 
than did this same young Corsican stripling. In 1791 
he was made captain, and in 1792, while passing a six 
months' leave of absence in Corsica, he engaged in his 
first military enterprise. At the head of two battalions 
of the National Guard levied in Corsica, he was ordered 
to make a descent upon Sardinia in co-operation with 
Admiral Turget. The expedition proved a failure, but 
Napoleon gained some reputation from it, he having 
performed his part in a successful manner. Shortly after 
this Paoli entered into a plot to surrender Corsica to 
15 



l6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

England, and Napoleon, having refused to join him, was 
obliged, together with the whole Bonaparte family, to 
flee from the island. Landing at Nice, this family of 
future kings and queens removed to Marseilles, where 
they resided in great want and embarrassment until 
relieved by the rising fortune of Napoleon. 

In the meantime, other events were occurring in France, 
which would soon change the entire form of government, 
In 1789 the French Revolution commenced. Napoleon 
then twenty years of age, was fated to be the great result 
of that terrible upheaval. It is therefore not improper, 
in a collection of this kind, to give place to certain poems 
and songs portraying the principal scenes and actors in 
that bloody drama, as a history of those awful times is, 
of necessity, a part of the history of Napoleon. 

THE BATTLE OF CHANGE, 1 789. 

Charles Mackay. 

Great thoughts are heaving in the world's wide breast ; 
The Time is labouring with a mighty birth ; 

The old ideals fall. 
Men wander up and down in wild unrest ; 
A sense of change preparing for the Earth 

Broods over all. 
There lies a gloom on all things under Heaven — 
A gloom portentous to the quiet men, 
Who see no joy in being driven 
Onwards from change, ever to change again ; 
Who never walk but on the beaten ways, 
And love the breath of yesterdays ; — 
Men who would rather sit and sleep 
Where sunbeams through the ivies creep, 



THE BATTLE OF CHANGE, 1 789. 1 7 

Each at his door-post all alone, 

Heedless of near or distant wars, 

Than wake and listen to the moan 

Of storm-vex'd forests nodding to the stars — 

Or hear, far-off, the melancholy roar 

Of billows white with wrath, battling against the shore. 

Deep on their troubled souls the shadow lies ; 

And in that shadow come and go — 

While fitful lightnings write upon the skies. 

And mystic voices chant the coming woe — 

Titanic phantoms swathed in mist and flame. 

The mighty ghosts of things without a name. 

Mingling with forms more palpably defined, 

That whirl and dance like leaves upon the wind ; 

Who marshal in array their arrowy hosts, 

And rush to battle in a cloud-like land ; 

Thick phalanx'd on those far aerial coasts. 

As swarms of locusts plaguing Samarcand. 

" Oh, who would live," they cry, " in time like this! 

A time of conflict fierce, and trouble strange ; 

When Old and New, over a dark abyss. 

Fight the great battle of relentless Change ? " 

And still before their eyes discrowned kings. 

Desolate chiefs, and aged priests forlorn, 

Flit by — confused — with all incongruous things, 

Swooping in rise and fall on ponderous wings. 

While here and there, amid a golden light, 

Angelic faces, sweet as summer morn, 

Gleam for an instant ere extinguish'd quite. 

Or change to stony skulls, and spectres livid white. 

But not to me — oh ! not to me appear 
Eternal glooms. I see a brighter sky, 
I feel a healthful motion of the sphere ; 



5 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And lying down upon the grass, I hear 

Far, far away, yet drawing near, 

A low sweet sound of ringing melody ; 

I see the swift-wing'd arrows fly ; 

I see the battle and the combatants ; 

I know the cause for which their weapons flash ; 

I hear the martial music and the chants, 

The shock of hosts, the armour clash 

As Thought meets Thought ; — but far beyond I see, 

Adown the abysses of the time to be, 

The well-won victory of Right ; 

The laying down of useless swords and spears ; 

The reconcilement ardently desired 

Of universal Truth with Might, — 

Whose long estrangement, filling earth with tears, 

Gave every manly heart, divinely fired, 

A lingering love, a hope inspired. 

To reconcile them never more to sunder. 

Far, far away above the rumbling thunder, 

I see the splendour of another day. 

Ever since infant Time began 

There has been darkness over man ; 

It rolls and shrivels up ! It melts away ! 



Marie Antoinkitk. 
From an engraving by Le \"achex. 

Paris, 1804. 



"CA IRA." 

In 1790 the Revolution had barely commenced. The 
people of France still had hopes of bettering their social 
condition without resort to extreme violence. The storm- 
ing of the Bastile on the fourteenth of July, 1789, and the 
razing of that foul dungeon to the ground, were acts which 
might well be pardoned. The disgraceful and bloody scenes 
enacted at Versailles, on the fifth and sixth of October, 
were immediately provoked by the scarcity of bread in 
Paris, and by the defiant conduct of a party of hot-headed 
royalist officers, who, emboldened by the presence of their 
King and Queen, flushed with wine and lured by the 
seductive and ardent glances of beauty, lost all control 
of themselves, trampled the tri-colours under their feet, 
mounted the white cockade and with swords unsheathed 
swore to defend their majesties and to maintain the 
throne, even at the cost of their lives. The result was 
a terrible exhibition of the power of a Paris mob. Blood 
was shed and horrible atrocities committed, and the King 
and his court were compelled to give up Versailles and 
return ignominiously to Paris. But still the good sense 
of the middle classes controlled, and quiet was again re- 
stored. The Fete de la F^d^ration was celebrated on 
the Champs de Mars the fourteenth of July, 1790; the 
anniversary of the taking of the Bastile. Talleyrand, 



20 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

then Bishop of Autun, assisted by four hundred priests, 
celebrated Mass in the presence of four hundred thousand 
spectators. Lafayette, commander of the National Guard ; 
then the Assembly in a body, and then the King, all 
swore before the altar of the country to maintain the Con- 
stitution, decreed by the Assembly and accepted by the 
King. Everybody rejoiced, and every sign denoted the 
dawning of an era of freedom and peace. It was for that 
occasion " (^a Ira " was written, and it was then first sung. 
It became at once one of the most popular songs of the 
period, and it is said to have been a great favourite with 
Marie Antoinette, who often played it on her harpsichord. 

"gA ira!" 

Anon. 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, 
All will succeed though malignants are strong ; 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right. 
Thus says the people by day and by night. 

Dismal will soon be our enemies' plight, 

While Jubilate we sing with delight, 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right ; 
Singing aloud a joyous song, 
We will shout with all our might; 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right ; 
All will succeed, etc. 

What Boileau said once the clergy to spite. 
Proved him a truly prophetical wight. 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right. 
Taking the old Gospel-truth for their text — 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 



"gA IRA /" 2: 

Our legislators will work it out quite ; 
Bringing the proud from their insolent height, 
Making the lot of the lowly men bright ; 
Truth ev'ry soul shall illume with her light, 
Till superstition shall quickly take flight. 
Frenchmen ne'er will be perplexed 
Wholesome laws to keep in sight. 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, 
All will succeed, etc. 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
Pierrot and Margot sing at the guinguette: 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
Good times approach, and rejoicings invite. 
Right was once only the nobleman's might : 
As for the people, he screwed them down tight. 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right ; 
Now all the clergy are weeping for spite. 
For we have rescued the prey from the kite. 
The sagacious Lafayette 
Every wrong will put to flight ; 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
All will succeed, etc. 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
While the Assembly sheds lustre so clear: 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
We '11 stand on guard by the ray of their light. 
Falsehood no longer can dazzle our sight, 
For the good cause we are ready to fight : 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
All the Aristos are bursting with spite. 
We of the people are laughing outright. 
We their struggles do not fear, 
Right will triumph over might. 



22 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
All will succeed, etc. 

All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
Little and great the same feelings inspire, — 
None will prove false in so glorious a fight ; 
Views may be crooked, but words will have might. 
All will go right,^ — will go right, — will go right, — 
" Hither who will," we hear Freedom invite ; 
And to her call we reply with delight. 
Fearing neither sword nor fire, 
France will keep her glory bright. 
All will go right, — will go right, — will go right, — 
All will succeed, etc. 



MlRABKAU. 

From an engraving by I.e Vacliex. 
Paris, 1804. 



MIRABEAU DYING. 

Two events occurred in 1791, which were pregnant with 
great results to the French nation. In April of that year 
Mirabeau died, and in June the attempted escape of the 
King and his family was frustrated. The death of Mira- 
beau removed the only person, who, perhaps, had the 
power to turn aside the Revolution, already at hand with 
all its bloody paraphernalia. With Mirabeau's voice 
silenced by death, it only needed the flight of the King 
to start the conflagration, which had been smouldering 
for so many years. It is not hard to understand the force 
and effect of these two events, when one comes to know 
the state of affairs existing at that time. It was as yet a 
question of how the King should rule ; it had not come 
to the question of whether he should rule at all. Mira- 
beau died at the age of forty-two, in the very prime of 
his mental faculties. It is a grave and an open question 
what course the French Revolution would have taken 
had this great statesman and brilliant orator not died at 
the very time when his strength in the National Assem- 
bly seemed all powerful. Could this man who had been 
one of the chief promoters of the Revolution have 
checked it by the force of his eloquence? Either that, or 
death on the scaffold as a traitor to the people's cause. 
Gold, and the Queen's condescension, had convinced 
23 



24 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Mirabeau that the Constitution should be amended so as 
to strengthen the position of the King. He died claimed 
by both Royalist and Republican. One of the most cor- 
rupt of men during life, at his death he was surrounded, 
at his own request, with sweet perfumes, beautiful flow- 
ers, and soft music. Mourned by the whole nation, he 
was accorded a funeral second only in grandeur to the 
second funeral of the Great Emperor. Four hundred 
thousand people escorted his body to the Pantheon ; 
from whence, in November, 1793, his ashes were dragged 
and scattered to the four winds by the people, who at 
the same time burnt his bust in the Place de Greve, as an 
enemy to the RepubHc. How true his own words ; that 
the Capitol was near the Tarpeian rock, and that the 
same people who flattered him, would have had equal 
pleasure in seeing him hanged. 

MIRABEAU DYING. 

William Ross Wallace. 

Why do ye wonder at my wish ? 

Despite my tiger-face. 
Have ye ne'er felt that in my heart 

There was a gentle place ? 
Bears not the storm-cloud in his breast 

The power of giving birth 
To rainbows, at the sun's command. 

For tempest-shaken Earth ? 

Then gently lift my window up, 

And let the summer breeze 
Waft blessings on my changing brow, 

From yonder murmuring trees ; 



M IRA BEAU DYING. 25 

And set some flowers upon the sill, 

And round me pour perfume ; 
And sing the tenderest song ye know, 

In Death's fast-gathering gloom. 

A rainbow from the breaking storm 

Is brightly springing, see 
Its glories twine beneath the sun 

Of Immortality ! 
O thus ! O thus with music, flowers, 

To the Unknown I go ; 
Peace, Peace at last is on the brow 

Of storm-souled MiRABEAU ! 



THE MASSACRE OF AVIGNON. 

From 1789 to the tenth of August, 1792, the march of 
the Revolution went steadily on, with ever advancing 
steps, but with comparatively little violence. The death 
of Mirabeau and the flight of the King greatly acceler- 
ated the movement, but still the managers were not quite 
ready to ring up the curtain on the bloody drama, so 
soon to be enacted. It is true that during this interval 
horrible and atrocious crimes were committed, among 
which, one of the most brutal and cowardly was the foul 
and hideous massacre of the Royalists at Avignon, which 
took place in October, 1791. The inhuman scene there 
witnessed was soon to be repeated everywhere through- 
out France in still more horrible and barbarous forms. It 
is said that Robespierre, then a distinguished member of 
the Jacobin Club at Paris, was the prime mover of, and 
took an active part in bringing about, this infamous 
butchery. 

THE MASSACRE OF AVIGNON. 

Bessie Rayner Parkes. 

Robespierre reigned in the Place de Greve, 
And in distant Avignon his word was doom, 
When a band of Royalists, piously brave. 
Were marched to the edge of their gaping tomb. 
26 



THE MASSACRE OF AVIGNON. 2^ 

As they went on their way they sang, — 
Tender and full the chorus rang, — 

A rJienre supreme, Mere cherie, 

Ora pro nobis, Sainte Marie ! 

The maiden young, and the grandsire old, 

And the child, whose prayers were shortly told ; 

And the cure, walking side by side 

With the baron, whose name was his only pride ; 

The noble dame and the serving-maid, — 

Neither ashamed nor yet afraid, — 

A wonderful sight they were that day, 

Singing still as they went their way, — 

A rjieiire supreme. Mere cherie, 

Ora pro nobis, Sainte Marie ! 

One of their murderers, waiting nigh, 
Heard them singing as they went by, 
And smiled, as he felt the edge of his blade. 
At the fulness of music their voices made. 
" We '11 stop that melody soon," said he, 
" In spite of their calling on Sainte Marie." 
But one by one as those voices fell, 
The others kept up the chorus well, — 

A r Jieure supreme. Mere cherie, 

Ora pro nobis, Sainte Marie ! 

When all the victims to death had gone, 
And the last sweet music was hushed and done, 
When the pit was filled, with no stone to mark, 
And the murderers turned through the closing dark, 
One of them wiped his sharp knife clean. 
Strode over the soil where the grave had been. 
And hummed as he went, with an absent air, 
Some notes just caught by his memory there, — 

A I 'heure supreme, Mere cherie, 

Ora pro nobis, Sainte Marie ! 



28 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And when the thought of that day grew dim, 
Those obstinate words still clung to him. 
He was a man who said no prayers, 
But his lips would fashion them unawares ; 
They mixed with his dreams, and started up. 
To check the curses bred in his cup ; 
They wove him round in a viewless net 
Of thoughts he could not, though fain, forget, 
As he still repeated, again and again, 
The ghostly air and the ancient strain, — 
A rjieure supreme, Mere cherie, 
Or a pro nobis. Saint e Marie ! 

Thirty years were counted and o'er ; 
The lilies of France bloomed out once more ; 
The grapes which hung on the vines were rife, 
Like the penitent man on the threshold of life : 
When the Angel of Death with healing came 
For one who in Lyons had borne no name 
But " Le Frere d'Avignon " for many a day ; 
Who living and dying would hourly say 
('T was on his lips as he passed away), — 
A Vheure supreme, Mere cherie, 
Ora pro nobis, Sainte Marie ! 



KomiEi' i)K Lisi.E. 
From an etching liy E. H. Gaireit. 

Place and date of publication unknown. 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 

According to Lamartine, the history of the famous 
Marseillaise Hymn is as follows : In the winter of 1791— 
92 there was in garrison at Strasburg a young French 
officer named Rouget de Lisle. " This young man loved 
war like a soldier — the Revolution like a thinker." A 
poet and a musician, he charmed with his verses and his 
songs the slow, dull, garrison life. M. Dietrick was then 
mayor of the city, and with him and his family De Lisle 
was on terms of the most intimate friendship, and fre- 
quently visited at their home. A great scarcity of food 
prevailed in Strasburg that winter, and the Mayor, being 
a poor man, lived in a very frugal manner. While at 
dinner one day, De Lisle being his guest, he sent one of 
his daughters to the cellar for the last bottle of wine he 
had, and when she had brought it, he said to De Lisle: 
" Let us drink this, my last bottle of wine, to liberty and 
our country, and then you will compose for us a hymn 
which will convey to the soul of the people the enthusiasm 
which suggested it." They drank the wine, and at mid- 
night De Lisle went to his cold and lonely chamber, his 
heart full of enthusiasm, and his head heated with wine. 
Seating himself before his small clavichord, he began to 
sing and play. Finally, worn out and exhausted, his 
head fell upon the instrument he was playing, and he 
29 



30 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

slept until morning. When he awoke, he committed to 
writing the words and the music as they had come to him 
the night before ; then caUing in M. Dietrick, his family, 
and a few other friends, he played and sang the hymn, 
since known as the " Marseillaise," and which was to make 
his name famous throughout the world. The new song 
flew from city to city. Marseilles adopted it to be sung 
at the opening and closing ceremonies of its clubs. The 
Marseillais sang it on their way to Paris, and it took its 
name from the fact that this band of cut-throats first intro- 
duced it into Paris, where it was called " L'Hymn des Mar- 
seillaise." It became at once the most popular song of the 
Revolution, and was sung at most of the bloody execu- 
tions which took place. Dietrick himself went to the 
scaffold to the sound of the notes produced from the 
heart of his friend, and sung for the first time by his 
daughter with that friend ; and De Lisle barely escaped 
being the author of his own funeral march. 

There is another version of the history of this song, 
given on the alleged authority of De Lisle himself ; which 
is, that the song was produced in the month of April, 
1792, while De Lisle was stationed in garrison at Stras- 
burg. It is said by a correspondent of one of the London 
papers, who claims to have had it direct from De Lisle, 
that the song was composed on the night following the 
declaration of war by Austria and Prussia, and the name 
first given it by De Lisle was " Le Chant de I'Armee du 
Rhin." De Lisle's brother officers, knowing him to have 
both poetry and music in his soul, insisted, upon the oc- 
casion mentioned, that he should write a new song, which 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 3 1 

must be forthcoming before morning. Shutting himself 
up in his room with his clavichord, he wrote the words and 
music in one night. The reason given in this version for 
its name is the same as given by Lamartine. 

The following translation is not the popular one, but we 
think it is the one which approaches nearer to the original 
than any other we know of. Carlyle said of this hymn 
that it was " The luckiest musical composition ever 
promulgated," and Sir Walter Scott marked it as "The 
iinest hymn to which libert)' has ever given birth." 

THE MARSEILLAISE. 

RouGET DE Lisle. 

Come, children of your country, come. 

New glory dawns upon the world. 
Our tyrants, rushing to their doom. 

Their bloody standard have unfurled : 
Already on our plains we hear 

The murmurs of a savage horde ; 

They threaten with the murderous sword 
Your comrades and your children dear. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand ; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 

Those banded serfs, — what would they have, 

By tyrant kings together brought ? 
Whom are those fetters to enslave 

Which long ago their hands have wrought ? 
You, Frenchmen, you they would enchain ; 

Doth not the thought your bosoms fire? 

The ancient bondage they desire 
To force upon your necks again. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand ; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 



32 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Those marshalled foreigners, — shall they 

Make laws to reach the Frenchman's hearth ? 
Shall hireling troops who fight for pay 

Strike down our warriors to the earth ? 
God ! shall we bow beneath the weight 

Of hands that slavish fetters wear ? 

Shall ruthless despots once more dare 
To be the masters of our fate? 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 

Then tremble, tyrants, — traitors all, — 
Ye, whom both friends and foes despise ; 

On you shall retribution fall, 

Your crimes shall gain a worthy prize. 

Each man opposes might to might, 
And when our youthful heroes die, 
Our France can well their place supply ; 

We 're soldiers all with you to fight. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 

Ye generous warriors, still forbear 

To deal on all your vengeful blows ; 
The train of hapless victims spare. 

Against their will they are our foes. 
But, oh, those despots stained with blood, 

Those traitors leagued with base Bouille, 

Who make their native land their prey ; — 
Death to the savage tiger-brood ! 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand : 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 

And when our glorious sires are dead. 
Their virtues we shall surely find 



THE MARSEILLAISE. 33 

When on the self-same path we tread, 

And track the fame they leave behind. 
Less to survive them we desire 

Than to partake their noble grave ; 
The proud ambition we shall have 
To live for vengeance or expire. 
Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand ; 
March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 

Come, love of country, guide us now, 

Endow our vengeful arms with might, 
And, dearest liberty, do thou 

Aid thy defenders in the fight. 
Unto our flags let victory, 

Called by thy stirring accents, haste ; 

And may thy dying foes at last 

Thy triumph and our glory see. 

Then up, and form your ranks, the hireling foe withstand ; 

March on, — his craven blood must fertilise the land. 
3 



LA CARMAGNOLE. 

The tenth of August, 1792, was the beginning of the 
end. The Revolution was at last a stern and a bloody 
reality. The massacre of the Swiss guards at the Tui- 
leries, and the horrible scenes enacted there on that day, 
were but the prelude to what was so soon to follow. The 
King and his family were driven from their last royal 
abiding-place and thrown into prison like common felons. 
The Temple was but another step towards the scaffold. 
It was on the occasion of the taking of the Royal family 
to the Temple that the vile song of " La Carmagnole " 
was composed and first sung. It was afterwards sung 
and danced at every massacre and licentious orgie which 
took place. Men, women, and children, drunken, dirty, 
ragged, ferocious as famished wolves, and with hands 
dripping with human blood, sung this song and danced 
its accompaniment with all the abandonment of hellish 
fiends. It was the song of the sans-culotte, and though 
vile and insulting to fallen royalty, no collection of revo- 
lutionary songs would be complete without it. It died 
with the death of the Reign of Terror. 

LA CARMAGNOLE. 

Anon. 

Great Madame Veto swore one day 
The folks of Paris she would slay ; 
34 



K'uus XVI. 

From an engraving by Le \''ach'ex 

Paris, rSo^. 



LA CARMAGNOLE. 35 

Our cannoniers so stout, 
Soon put my lady out. 
We 11 dance the Carmagnole: 

Brothers, rejoice, — brothers, rejoice. 
We '11 dance the Carmagnole ; 
Hail to the cannon's voice. 

Great Monsieur Veto swore one day 
His country he would ne'er betray ; 

His promise he forgot, 

So he shall go to pot. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

The people, Marie Antoinette 
Thought on their nether ends to set ; 

She made a sad mistake. 

And chanced her nose to break. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

Her husband thought he was in luck, — 
He had not learned a Frenchman's pluck ; 

So, lusty Louis, so, 

You '11 to the Temple go. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

The Swiss, too, had a great desire 
Upon our brotherhood to fire ; 

But by the men of France 

They soon were taught to dance. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

When Madame saw the tower, no doubt, 
She gladly would have faced about ; 

It turned her stomach proud 

To find herself so cowed. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 



36 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

When Louis, who was once so big, 
Before him saw the workmen dig, 

He said, — how hard his case 

To be in such a place. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

All honest folks throughout the land 

Will by the patriot surely stand, 
As brethren firmly bound. 
While loud the cannons sound. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

All Royalists throughout the land 
Will by the base Aristos stand ; 

And they '11 keep up the war. 

Like cowards as they are. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

The gen-d'armes swear they '11 firmly stand 
As guardians of their native land ; 

They heard the cannons sound. 
And backward were not found. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

Come, friends, united we will be. 

Then we shall fear no enemy ; 
If any foes attack. 
We '11 gaily beat them back. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 

A gallant sans-culotte, am I, 

The friends of Louis I defy ; 

Long live the Marseillois, 
The Bretons and the laws. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 



LA CARMAGNOLE. 37 

The Faubourgs' valiant sans-culotte, — 
Oh, never be his name forgot ; 

But jovially fill up 

To him the other cup. 

We '11 dance the Carmagnole, etc. 



THE ROARING OF THE SEA. 

From the tenth of August, 1792, to the fall of Robe- 
spierre, July twenty-eighth, 1794, the Reign of Terror had 
full and complete control of France. Paris and the pro- 
vinces were drenched with blood. The people in power, 
however honest their purpose, were no longer human ; so 
much blood had turned their heads. Of those awful two 
years the year 1793 was the most marked, for it witnessed 
the downfall of royalty in the execution of Louis XVI. 
and Marie Antoinette. The army on the frontier was the 
only body of Frenchmen who seemed to have the interest 
of their country at heart ; all else was chaos and confusion. 
The government had broken from its long-established 
mooring, and no one knew where it would bring up, or 
what its fate would be. Good did come out of it all, in 
the end, and France and mankind received a benefit ; but 
at what a fearful price ! The condition of affairs at the 
beginning of the year 1793 is well told in the following 
verses : 

THE ROARING OF THE SEA. 

1793- 

Charles Mackay. 

I had a dream, a noontide dream. 
Thrice it came and thrice it went, 

33 



THE ROARING OF THE SEA. 39 

And thrice it left a light and gleam, 

As of a purpose why 't was sent. 
A dream of mist and blinding haze, 

WhereoLit there issued a drowsy sound, 
As of the hum from crowded ways, 

Where streams of life go eddying round. 
The church bells muffled in fogs and glooms. 

Faintly pealed over wold and lea, 
But clear 'mid the pauses of the booms, 

/ heard the roaring of the Sea. 

Sadly the people to and fro 

Rock'd and sway'd, they knew not why ; 
I could scarcely see them come or go, 

So thick the vapours draped the sky ; 
They look'd half-form'd, gigantic, vague. 

Things of the cloud, but not of the Sun, 
As of a City of the Plague, 

Where Hope and Healing there were none. 
Some were lawyers with wigs and gowns. 

Some were priests — or seem'd to be. 
And some were kings with tottering crowns — 

Aud they heard the roaring of the Sea. 

" Why dost thou linger in the mist } " 

I asked a sage of snow-white head. 
" Not those emerge from it who list ; 

I caimot see my way," he said. 
" All things are out of gear and line, 

Men worship money, their only god ; 
Each thinks himself alone divine. 

And tramples his neighbour to the sod. 
Ever the weakest goes to the wall. 

None of us know what the end shall be, 
Except that misery must befall — 

]Ve hear the roaring of the Sea." 



40 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

I mingled in the priestly throng, 

And ask'd of one who seem'd the chief, 
"If in the mist he 'd linger'd long ? " 

" Ay, long ! " he said, " without relief ! 
We know not whether we sit or stand, 

Or whether we wander in or out ! — 
We find nor comfort, nor guiding hand, 

Nor any glimmering but of doubt. 
We feel a quiver of earthquake shocks, — 

We would be bound and yet be free, 
We tread on the edge of perilous rocks — 

We hear the roaring of the Sea." 

A group of statesmen, sore at fault. 

Brothers in doubt, of different schools, 
Uncertain whether to march or halt, 

Sat pondering — knaves as well as fools. 
I ask'd them why their discontent ? 

" We want to govern poor human-kind, 
That will not walk as we have meant. 

So deaf it is, so dull and blind. 
We cannot rule a world gone mad, 

Woe is upon us ! if thus it be ! — 
There 's little good among the bad, — 

We hear the roaring of the Sea." 

I question'd one that seem'd a king, 

From the vapoury, misty crown he wore, 
Why to the shadows he seem'd to cling, 

Shadows behind and shadows before ? 
He answer'd sadly, " Ask me not ! 

I strive to follow my father's trade. 
I walk as I may — or can — God wot — 

Stumbling and halting, and afraid ! 



THE ROARING OF THE SEA. 4 

The time is pass'd for Right Divane. 

The people have ceased to bend the knee, 
The end is coming for me and mine — 

I hear the roaring of the Sea." 

Down there came, like a river in flood, 

A crowd of People haggard and worn ; 
And they roar'd and yell'd and clamour'd for blood, 

Frantic and furious and forlorn. 
" What do you want ? " I ask'd of one ; 

He answer'd, " The Earth for its children dear. 
Farms as free as the light of the Sun, 

And fair partition of life's good cheer, 
Of corn and wine, and sheep and beeves ; 

All that the Earth produces free, 
Why should we starve 'mid the bursting sheaves ? — 

We 've heard the roaring of the Sea.'' 

The billowy, rising, roaring sea, — 

The stifling, swathing, blinding mist ; 
A Chaos big with a new To Be, 

And a ruddy sunshine not uprist. 
Hear it, ye preachers of the creeds ! 

Take heed, ye wise, without a plan. 
There 's something better than sordid needs — 

There 's a futurity for man ! 
" Each for himself " is a gospel of lies. 

That never was issued by God's decree — 
There 's fresh fair light on the morning skies — 

There 's health in the roaring of the Sea. 



THE AWAKENING OF TPIE PEOPLE. 

The following song represents the worst feelings of the 
Revolution. It was suppressed by the Directory in 1795 ; 
but during the two preceding years it was a great favour- 
ite with the unrestrained demons who governed France. 
Nothing was too horrible for those bloody-minded fiends. 
The inhuman butchery and the monstrous outrages per- 
petrated upon the dead body of the Princess Lamballe, 
were but fair illustrations of the foul deeds committed 
by the loathsome followers of Robespierre, Danton, and 
St. Just. The regeneration of France was, perhaps of 
necessity, entrusted to the hands of men who could see 
no way to accomplish their purpose except through the 
guillotine and a river of blood. The leaders themselves 
became like wild beasts, and when they could no longer 
agree they turned on each other, and the majority of them 
were sent, by the votes of their former colleagues, to the 
same scafford to which they had by their acts doomed so 
many. 

THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE. 

J. M. SOURIC.rERES. 

Nation of brethren, Frenchmen brave ! 
Feel you no horror at the sight, 
42 



THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE. 43 

When treason dares her flag to wave, 

Awaking carnage and affright ? 
What ! shall a sanguinary band 

Of robbers and assassins dare 
To trample on our native land, 

And with their breath pollute the air? 



What guilty torpor binds you fast ? 

Wake, sovereign people, quick, awake ! 
To hellish fiends the wretches cast, 

Who long with blood their thirst to slake ! 
War to the death ! should be your cry — 

War to all partners in their guilt : 
If you could only hate as I, 

The blood of all were quickly spilt. 



Yea, let them perish — do not spare 

Those monsters who would flesh devour, 
Who in their craven bosoms bear 

The worship of a tyrant's power. 
Manes of innocence, who wail 

For retribution in your tombs. 
Rest, rest ! your murderers now grow pale,- 

At last the day of vengeance comes. 

Mark how their limbs with terror shake; — 

They dare not fly, — too well they know 
Escape is vain, — each path they take 

The blood they vomit forth will show. 
Ye shades ! upon your tombs we swear, 

By the misfortunes of our land, 
That we a hecatomb will rear. 

Of that foul, man-devouring band. 



44 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Ye legislators, good and just. 

Chosen to guard the people's right, 
Who, with your countenance august, 

Our enemies with fear can smite. 
Follow your glorious path ! — each name 

Dear to humanity will be. 
And, wafted to the Hall of Fame, 

Will dwell with Immortality ! 



AN INCIDENT IN THE REIGN OF TERROR. 

Acts of noble heroism were of frequent occurrence 
during the awful days of the Reign of Terror. Mercy 
was seldom offered the unhappy victim, and when offered 
was so loaded with vile and cowardly conditions that it was 
at once, almost universally, rejected. Death was far bet- 
ter than life at the price demanded. To save her father's 
life the daughter drank a glass full of warm blood, fresh 
from the body of the murdered victim at her feet ; but 
her father dead, the same girl would beg to die by his 
side. In 1793 and 1794 the guillotine could not do its 
bloody work fast enough, and to aid it in its mission of 
destruction men, women, and children were gathered to- 
gether by hundreds and blown to pieces at the cannon's 
mouth. If, perchance, any escaped the murderous dis- 
charge they were at once cut down by the sabre or run 
through the body by the bayonet. Young men and 
maidens were stripped naked, lashed together and thrown 
into the river ; victims of what, with hellish mirth, were 
designated as " Republican marriages." 

The incident described in the following lines actually 
occurred, and it was but one of the many of like kind that 
took place. 

45 



46 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

AN INCIDENT IN THE REIGN OF TERROR. 

Mrs. H. E. G. Arey. 

Unwarned, upon the cloudless sky, 

A sudden thunder burst, 
Beneath the blood-stained willow trees 

Of Brotteaux field accurst ; 
The fiends that fed on human life 

Had waked the cannon's roar, — 
For blunt with carnage was the knife 

That deluged France in gore ; — 
And, where its sanguine rivers flowed, 

Discarded, with a frown. 
The sickle that too slowly mowed 

Their breathing harvests down. 

And the willows shook with horror. 

Uplifting from the plain 
The twigs that felt the seething heat. 

Of this unhallowed rain ; 
And slowly, on the quivering air, 

The smoke-clouds rolled away. 
From off the crimson heather where 

The murdered victims lay ; 
But still with fettered hands and feet, 

O'erflowed with kindred blood. 
An eye that watched, his doom to meet, 

A boy uninjured stood. 

Javogues turned with careless scoff ; — 

" Well, let him live," he said, 
" The child shall join our ranks, — come off, — 

Such blood 's not worth the lead." 
Out spoke the boy, and each swift word 

With pride and scorn had strife, 



AN INCIDENT IN THE REIGN OF TERROR. 47 

As back upon the blood-stained herd, 

He hurled the proffered life. 
^' Stay not for me the tide ye shed, 

I spurn the boon ye give ; 
The lovely and the pure are dead, 

'T is but the guilty live. 

"■ Call ye it mercy ? What ! to breathe 

This rank and poisoned air, 
Where sights like these the eyeballs seethe ? — 

Where only murderers are ? 
The frailest cowards 'neath yon sky 

May welcome death's advance, 
When hell itself is drained of fiends 

To seal the curse of France. 
Quick, — to your tasks, — the hour runs waste, 

Yon dungeons wait your care ; 
The life's-blood crowds my veins, for haste 

To join the slumberers there." 

He ceased, — but ere the breasts of men 

Could, for the wonder thrill. 
Hoarse breathed that brazen mouth again ; — 

His burning heart was still. 



LA TRICOTEUSE. 

Led by Santerre the brewer, Legendre the butcher, 
and Theroigne de Mericourt the prostitute, the women 
of the Faubourg St. Antoine, and other similar quarters 
in Paris, became during the Reign of Terror the most 
terribly furious and bloodthirsty of all the inhuman mon- 
sters brought to the surface in that awful strife for liberty. 
Maddened by want of food and excited to frenzy by vile 
liquor, these beings, bearing the semblance of women, 
were made worse than famished wolves in their cruelty 
and their demand for blood. From the midst of these 
unsexed creatures came the " Furies " of the guillotine, 
among whose number were found that band called " The 
Knitters," who sat at the foot of the scaffold at every 
execution, knitting ; and as head after head fell into the 
basket they would look up from their work and count 
" one " — " two " — " three," until the full quota of victims 
for the day had ceased to exist. These women were 
capable of teaching an innocent child to become one of 
thein, and the story told below is not at all improbable. 

LA TRICOTEUSE. 

George W. Thornbury. 

The fourteenth of July had come, 
And round the guillotine 
48 



LA TRICOTEUSE. 49 

The thieves and beggars, rank by rank, 

Moved the red flags between. 
A crimson heart, upon a pole, — 

The long march had begun ; 
But still the little smiling child 

Sat knittiner in the sun. 



The red caps of those men of France 

Shook like a poppy-field ; 
Three women's heads with gory hair. 

The standard-bearers wield. 
Cursing, with song and battle hymn, 

Five butchers dragged a gun ; 
Yet still the little maid sat there, 

A-knittine in the sun. 



An axe was painted on the flags, 

A broken throne and crown, 
A ragged coat upon a lance. 

Hung in foul black shreds down. 
" More heads ! " the seething rabble cry. 

And now the drums begun ; 
But still the little fair-haired child 

Sat knittine in the sun. 



And every time a head rolled off, 

They roll like winter seas. 
And, with a tossing up of caps. 

Shouts shook the Tuileries. 
Whizz — went the heavy chopper down. 

And then the drums begun ; 
But still the little smiling child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 



50 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The Jacobins, ten thousand strong, 

And every man a sword ; 
The red caps, with the tricolours, 

Led on the noisy horde, 
'* The Sans-Culottes to-day are strong." 

The gossips say, and run ; 
But still the little maid sits there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

Then the slow death-cart moved along 

And, singing patriot songs, 
A pale, doomed poet bowing comes 

And cheers the swaying throng. 
Oh, when the axe swept shining down, 

The mad drums all begun ; 
But, smiling still, the little child 

Sat knitting in the sun. 

*' Le Marquis ! " — linen snowy white, 

The powder in his hair. 
Waving his scented handkerchief, 

Looks down with careless stare. 
A whirr, a chop — another head — 

Hurrah ! the work 's begun ; 
But still the little child sat there, 

A-knitting in the sun. 

A stir, and through the parting crowd, 

The people's friends are come ; 
Marat and Robespierre — " Vivat ! 

Roll thunder from the drum." 
The one a wild beast's hungry eye, 

Hair tangled — hark ! a gun ! 
The other kindly kissed the child 

A-knitting in the sun. 



LA TKICOTEUSE. 

" And why not work all night ? " the child 

Said, to the knitters there ; 
Oh, how the furies shook their sides, 

And tossed their grizzled hair ! 
Then clapped a bonnet rouge on her, 

And cried — " 'T is well begun ! " 
And laughed to see the little child 

Knit, smiling, in the sun. 



CHARLOTTE CORDAY. 

Of all the hideous beings, miscalled men, unearthed by 
the French Revolution, Jean Paul Marat was the worst 
and the most hideous. Deformed and dirty in person ; 
ferocious as a wild beast ; vindictive and cruel ; yet, with 
all, endowed with some considerable talent and a great 
deal of charlatan cunning, he stirred up, by his writings 
and by his speeches, the vilest elements to be found in 
the city of Paris. " Eight hundred gibbets ought to be 
erected in the Tuileries to hang all traitors " ; " Massacre 
two hundred thousand partisans of the former order of 
things," are mild illustrations of the frantic ravings of 
this madman. On the fourteenth of July, 1793, the anni- 
versary of the storming of the Bastile, Charlotte Corday 
rid the world of this inhuman fiend. Tried for the crime, 
and, by her own confession, convicted, she perished upon 
the scaffold. 

CHARLOTTE CORDAY. 

Anon. 

Who is this, with calm demeanour, 
And with form of matchless grace, 

Wearing yet the modest beauty 
Of her childhood in her face ? 
52 



CHARLO'IIK ('or 1 1 \\ . 
From an engraving liy I ,e \ aclie^ 

Pari-:, 1804, 



CHA RLOTTE CORDAY. 53 

Close the white folds of her kerchief 

All her neck and bosom wrap, 
And her soft brown hair is hidden 

Underneath her Norman cap. 

This is she who left the convent, 
For the fierce and restless throngs, 

Who were gathering head for battle, 
To avenge her country's wrongs. 

This is she who to its rescue. 

Was the foremost to advance- 
She who struck to death the tyrant 

Of her well beloved France. 

She who had the martyr's spirit 

To perform as she had planned ; 
Taking thus her life's sweet promise 

In her own presumptuous hand. 

All the while, herself deceiving, 

With this dangerous subtletry, 
" Evil, surely, is not evil 

If a good is gained thereby. 

" If I perish for my country. 

Is not this a righteous deed ? 
If I save the lives of thousands, 

What is it that one should bleed ?" 

So, arraigned at the tribunal, 

This alone was her reply : 
" It was I who did this murder, 

And I do not fear to die." 



54 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Therefore pitying, admiration, 

More than blame, for her we feel — 

Hers was noble and heroic. 
Though it was mistaken zeal. 

And so long as France shall honour 
Those whose blood for her is shed. 

Shall the name of Charlotte Corday 
Live among the martyred dead ! 



THE GIRONDINS. 

President of the Convention that voted death to Louis 
XVI., and himself casting such a vote, Vergniaud and his 
fellow Girondins, of whom he was the stalwart leader, 
were in turn doomed to taste of the same bitter cup they 
had prescribed for their king. Marat dead by the hand of 
an assassin ; the Girondins about to die on the scaffold ; 
Danton, St. Just, Robespierre soon to follow. It would 
seem like the irony of fate when we count how few of the 
men who brought about those awful days survived to 
witness the end. A young, unknown artillery officer, who 
was an advocate of grapeshot, but not of the guillotine, 
and who had taken no active part in the bloody and hor- 
rible deeds of the French Revolution, was the one des- 
tined to bring it to a close, and the one, above all others, 
to be benefited by it. 

" The last night of the Girondins was sublime. Vergni- 
aud was provided with poison. He threw it away that he 
might die with his friends. They took a last meal to- 
gether, at which they were by turns merry, serious, and' 
eloquent. Brissot and Gensonne were grave and pensive. 
Vergniaud spoke of expiring liberty in the noblest terms, 
of regret, and of the destinies of man with persuasive elo- 
quence. Ducos repeated verses which he had composed 
55 



56 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

in prison ; and they all joined in singing hymns to France 
and Liberty." — Thiers' History of the French Revolution. 
" The Girondins spent the last night of their captivity 
in the great dungeon — that Hall of Death. The tribunal 
had ordered that the still warm corpse of Valaz6 should 
be taken back to the prison, carried on the same cart with 
his accomplices to the place of execution, and buried with 
them. . . . The gen-d'armes placed the body in a cor- 
ner of the prison. The Girondins, one after the other, 
kissed the heroic hand of their friend. They covered his 
face with his mantle. ' To-morrow ! ' said they to the 
corpse ; and they gathered their strength for the coming 
day. It was near midnight. The deputy Bailleul, pro- 
scribed like them, but concealed in Paris, had promised to 
send them from without, on the day of their judgment, a 
last repast of triumph, or of death, according as they 
might be acquitted or condemned. By the help of a 
friend, he kept his word. The funeral supper was spread 
in the great dungeon. Costly viands, rare wines, flowers, 
and lights covered the oak table of the prison. The meal 
lasted until the dawn of day. Vergniaud, seated near the 
centre of the table, presided with the same calm dignity 
which he had preserved during the night of the tenth of 
August while presiding over the Convention. The guests 
ate and drank with sobriety — merely to recruit their 
strength. Their discourse was grave and solemn, though 
not sad. Many of them spoke of the immortality of the 
soul, and expressed their belief in a future state." — La- 
jnartine's History of the Girondins. 



THE GIRONDINS. 57 

THE GIRONDINS. 

Dumas and Maqqet. 

When with the cannon's mighty voice, 

Her many children France invites, 
The soldier feels his heart rejoice, 

And for his mother proudly fights. 
Sublime is death indeed, 
When for our native land — for liberty — we bleed. 

We die, from battle-fields remote, 

Yet not ignoble is our doom ; 
To France and freedom we devote 

Our heads, and gladly seek the tomb. 
Sublime is death indeed. 
When for our native land — for liberty — we bleed. 

Brethren, we die a martyr's death, 

A noble creed we all profess ; 
No word of sorrow let us breathe ; 

Our France one day our name will bless. 
Sublime is death indeed, 
When for our native land — for liberty — we bleed. 

Then unto God your voices lift 

In gratitude, — a single sigh 
Would ill repay Him for His gift — 

It is for liberty we die. 

Sublime is death indeed, 
When for our native land — for libertv — we bleed. 



MADAME ROLAND. 

It was but a natural sequence to the execution of the 
Girondins that Madame Roland should perish upon the 
same scaffold. She who had been " the soul of the 
Gironde, this woman might one day prove a very Neme- 
sis, if permitted to survive those illustrious individuals 
who had preceded her to the grave." Would this woman 
have been as instrumental as she was in bringing the 
Marseillais to Paris had she known the horrors which 
were to follow? We doubt it. She was too much of a 
woman to become a butcher. She met her fate bravely ; 
her last act being one of kindness to a weak and infirm 
old man, in asking that he be executed first, so that she 
would spare him the pain of witnessing her blood flow. 
Bowing herself before the statue of Liberty she uttered 
the words, " O Liberty ! Liberty ! how many crimes are 
committed in thy name," and then her fair head fell into 
that basket destined to receive so many bloody trophies 
in the mis-used name of freedom. 

MADAME ROLAND. 

Anon. 

A mien of modest loveliness, 

A brow on which no shadow lies, 
And woman's soul of truthfulness 
Out-looking from soft hazel eyes: 

58 



MADAME ROLAND. 59 

Thy placid features only show 

The happy mother, faithful wife, 
Not her whose fate it was to know 

All strange vicissitudes of life. 

Unnoticed in thy youthful days 

It was thy happy lot to move, 
Brightening life's unobtrusive ways 

With the sweet ministries of love. 

And learning the great truths of life 

That best are learned in solitude, 
But only in its after strife 

Are ever proved or understood ! 

That toiling early, toiling late. 

For others, is our highest bliss — 
Man, even in his best estate, 

Hath no more happiness than this. 

Such truth it was, that even there, 

Where reigned the prison's gloom and chill, 

Could keep thee wholly from despair, 
And make thee toil for others still. 

Till thine own sorrows half forgot, 

Thy noblest sacrifice was shown 
In words and deeds for those whose lot 

Was far more wretched than thine own. 

Yet well for thee our tears may flow, 

Though high thy name emblazoned stands, 

Thou, with a woman's heart, couldst know 
No life that woman's heart demands. 

Happier than thou, with fame and wealth. 
Is she who cheers earth's humblest place ; 

Leaving no picture of herself, 

Save in a daughter's modest face. 



DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE. 

The death of Robespierre, July 28, 1794, was the end 
of the Reign of Terror; the Revolution ended October 
4, 1795, when Napoleon, in command of the troops sta- 
tioned around the Tuileries in defence of the National 
Convention, mowed down with grape and canister the 
armed hosts of the revolting Sections. This is not the 
proper place to undertake an analysis of the character of 
Robespierre. He certainly rose higher, held more abso- 
lute power, and was more dreaded and feared than any 
man connected with the history of the French Revolu- 
tion. Whether he was a demagogue, or an honest repub- 
lican seeking only the good of France, is a question upon 
which historians greatly differ. It is, however, a fact that 
had he not fallen v/hen he did, Josephine would, in all 
human probability, have lost her head upon the scaffold ; 
Barras could not have given her hand to Napoleon in 
connection with the command of the Army of Italy, and 
the great Emperor's life would have turned at some other 
periods than those of his marriage and his divorce. 

DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE. 
(10 Thermidor, 1794.) 

Henry Howard Brownell. 

Here let us stand — windows, and roofs, and leads 
Alive with clinging thousands — what a scene ! 
60 



ROBESl'lERRE. 

Artist and engraver unknown. 

Published in " Histoire-Musee de la Republique-Fran9aise. 
Paris (no date). 



DEA TH OF ROBESPIERRE. 6l 

And in the midst, above that sea of heads, 
Glooms the black Guillotine. 

A scene like that in the Eternal City, 

When on men's hearts the Arena feasted high — 
While myriads of dark faces, void of pity, 

Looked on to see them die. 

How the keen Gallic eyes dilate and glare ! 

The flexible brows and lips grimace and frown — 
How the walls tremble to their shout, whene'er 

That heavy steel comes down ! 

'T is nearly over — twenty heads have rolled. 
One after one, upon the block — while cheers 

And yells and curses howled by hate untold 
Rang in their dying ears. 

One more is left — and now, amid a storm 

Of angry sound from that great human Hive, 

They rear upright a dizened ghastly form, 
Mangled, yet still alive. 

Like one emerging from a deadly swoon, 
His eyes unclose upon that living plain — 

Those livid, snaky eyes ! — he shuts them soon. 
Never to ope again. 

As that forlorn, last, wandering gaze they took. 
Perhaps those cruel eyes, in hopeless mood, 

Sought, in their agony, one pitying look 
'Mid that vast multitude. 

Sought, but in vain, — inextricably mixed 

On square and street and house-top — he surveys 



62 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

A hundred thousand human eyes, all fixed 
In one fierce, pitiless gaze. 

Down to the plank ! the brutal headsmen tear 

Those blood-glued rags — nay, spare him needless pain. 

One cry ! God grant that we may never hear 
A cry like that again ! 

A pause — and the axe falls on Robespierre. 

That trenchant blade hath done its office well — 
Hark to the mighty roar ! Down, Murderer — 

Down to thy native Hell! 

Again that terrible shout ! till suburb far 

And crowded dungeon marvel what it mean — 

Hurrah ! and louder, louder, yet hurrah 
For the good Guillotine ! 

And breasts unladen heave a longer breath — 
And parting footsteps echo fast and light — 

Our Foe is lodged in the strong Prison of Death ! 
Paris shall sleep to-night. 



MADAME TALLIEN. 

Within the prison walls of the Carmes, at Paris, the 
day before the downfall of Robespierre, two women were 
confined, whose execution had been decreed for the mor- 
row. One was Josephine Tascher, the widow of General 
Beauharnais, who had lately perished upon the scaffold ; 
the other was Theresa Cabarus, the beloved of Tallien. 
guilty only of the crime of exercising too much power for 
clemency over her lover, the people's representative at 
Bordeaux. These women, both beautiful, were intimate 
friends, and had equally shared the public admiration be- 
stowed upon them. It is said that after the execution of 
Robespierre the friendship of Barras was the key which 
unlocked the prison door for these two noted Avomen ; 
one of whom was to become the Empress of France ; the 
other the destroyer of the Reign of Terror by inspiring 
her lover with courage to attack Robespierre openly in 
the Convention Hall. 

It is told by Lamartine, that one evening, while return- 
ing home, a letter from Theresa Cabarus was slipped into 
Tallien's hand. This note, which a bribed gaoler had 
allowed to leave the prison, was written in blood. It con- 
tained only these words : " The Administrator of Police 
has just left. He came to announce to me that to-morrow 
I should ascend to the tribunal, that is to say, to the scaf- 
63 



64 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

fold. This but little resembles the dream I had last 
night. If Robespierre no longer existed, the prisons 
would be open. But thanks to your unworthy cowardice 
there will soon be no one in France capable of realising 
this event." Tallien laconically replied: "Be you as 
prudent as I will be courageous, and be calm." As is 
well known, the result was that Tallien became the chief 
actor in bringing about the ruin of Robespierre and his 
party. 

Madame Tallien's reputation was not of the best. De- 
serting her first husband for Tallien, whom she married 
only after the 9th Thermidor, and in time deserting him 
to marry the Prince de Chimai, she, the most beautiful 
woman of her time, gained a most unhappy celebrity^ 
which pursued her everywhere. Fond of society and the 
adoration she received, her boldness in breaking over even 
the very loose social laws which then existed daunted her 
friends. After his marriage with Josephine, Napoleon 
forbade her receiving the friend of her prison life, and the 
doors of the Tuileries were shut against the woman who, 
in a great measure, had been the means of making it pos- 
sible for her old-time friend to become the wife of the 
future Emperor. 



MADAME TALLIEN. 



With a form of wondrous beauty 
And of most unrivalled grace. 

With a voice of winning sweetness 
And a fair and witching face, 



Anon. 



MADAME T ALLIEN. 65 

From the pleasant paths of girlhood, 

She came up with joy elate, 
And took thoughtlessly upon her 

All a matron's care and state. 

And we scarce can ever wonder 

That her life so careless seems — 
She is now but just emerging 

From her childhood's thoughtless dreams. 

And she has not learned the lesson, 

That can only come with years — 
That our life is not for pleasure. 

But for labour and for tears. 

But behold her, by misfortune, 

From her height of pleasure hurled ; 

Hath she seen how unsubstantial 
Are the honours of the world ? 

Doth she view her life as something 

That was profitless and vain ? 
What hath been to her the discipline 

Of sorrow and of pain ? 

Alas! that heaviest trial, 

Lonely thought, and fiery strife,. 
Could not change the heart within her, 

Nor the purpose of her life. 

For she lived by fitful impulse, 
Doing sometimes deeds of good ; 

Sometimes, in red wine washing 
Out the memories of blood. 



66 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Reigning as the queen of beauty, 
With an undisputed claim ; 

Hiding with a crown of roses 

All her forehead's crimson shame. 

Yet we would not quite condemn her 

Unto perfect infamy, 
For she seemed to have within her 

Something better than we see. 

And she might have added virtue 
To her beauty and her grace 

If her lines of life had fallen 
In a good and pleasant place. 



THE GRAND ARMY. 

While the Revolution went on and its effects were being 
felt from one end of France to the other ; while the guil- 
lotine ran red with blood, and brother condemned brother 
to suffer beneath its awful knife ; while it was a question 
of extreme doubt what precise form the government 
would assume, the soldiers of France, fighting her battles 
on the frontiers, held firm for the honour of their country. 
Barefooted, without arms and without food, they fought 
against combined Europe. Victory after victory they 
won ; until, driven beyond the Rhine, the invaders were 
glad to sue for peace. These were the men who were to 
make possible the name of Napoleon, and well did they 
merit better than they then received. The glory, the 
honour, the future of France were in their keeping, and 
never once did they betray the trust. 

THE GRAND ARMY. 

Victor Hugo. 

Soldiers of our Year Two ! O Wars ! O epic songs ! — 
Drawing at once their swords against all Crowned Wrongs, 

In Prussian, Austrian bounds. 
And against all the Tyres and Sodoms of the earth. 
And him the man-hunter, the Tzar o' the icy North, 

Follow'd by all his hounds. 
67 



68 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And against Europe all, with all its captains proud, 
With all its foot-soldiers whose might the plains did crowd 

With all its horsemen fleet, 
All risen against France, with many a hydra head, — 
They sang as on they march'd, their spirits without dread,. 

And without shoes their feet. 

At early dawn, at eve. South, North, and everywhere. 
With their old muskets on their shoulders, rattling there, 

Passing both rock and flood. 
Without sleep or rest, foodless, and ragged too. 
Joyous and proud they went, and their shrill trumpets 
blew 

As only demons could. 

Sublimest Liberty fill'd evermore their thought ; 

Fleets taken sword in hand, and frontiers set at nought, — 

So sovereignly they go ; 
O France ! on every day some prodigy they dare, — 
Encounters, combats, shocks, — on Adige' side Joubert, 

And on the Rhine Marceau. 

The vanguard they o'ercame, the centre they o'erthrew ; 
In the snow, and in the rain, water their middles to. 

On went they, ever on : 
And one sued them for peace, and one flung wide his gate ;. 
And thrones were scattered like dead leaves, here of late,. 

Now at the wind's breath gone. 

(3 soldiers ! you were grand, in the midst of battle-shocks. 
With your lightning-flashing eyes and wild dishevell'd locks, 

In the wild whirlwind black ; 
Impetuous, ardent, radiant, tossing back your heads. 
Like lions snufling up the North-wind when he treads 

Upon his tempest track ! 



THE GRAND ARMY. 69 

Drunken and madly rapt in their great epic deeds, 
They savour'd all the mirth of most heroic needs, — 

Steel clashing here and there, 
The winged Marseillaise flying amid the balls. 
The grenades and the drums, the bomb-shells and cymbals, 

And thy clear laugh, Kleber ! 

The Revolution cried — Die, O my volunteers! 
Die to deliver all the people from their fears ! 

Their answering hands they raised. 
Go, my old soldiers ! go, my beardless generals ! 
And Victory proudly march'd to the sound of bare foot 
falls 

Over the world amazed. 

Disheartening and fear to them were all unknown ; 
They had without a doubt over the high clouds gone, 

If their audacity 
In its Olympic race one moment had look'd back, 
And seen the Republic point over their glorious track 

Her finger to the sky. 



THE SONG OF DEPARTURE. 

Next to the " Marsellaise," the following was, perhaps, 
the most popular song of the latter days of the French 
Revolution. It was the song sung by the soldiers of 
Joubert, Marceau, and Kleber as, foot-sore and weary, they 
marched against their enemies. The Directory adopted 
it and Napoleon's warriors took it up in the early days of 
the Republic as they pushed forward the work so gal- 
lantly begun by the heroes who had preceded them. 

THE SONG OF DEPARTURE. 

M. J. Chenier. 

Victory, hymning loud, our pathway makes. 

While freedom guides our steps aright ; 
From North to South the martial trumpet wakes 

To sound the moment for the fight. 
Tremble, ye enemies of France, 

Kings who with blood have slaked your thirst ! 
The sovereign people see advance 

To hurl ye to your grave accursed. 
Come, brethren, the Republic calls ; 

For her our hearts and lives we give ; 
For her a Frenchman gladly falls, 

For her alone he seeks to live. 

A Mother. 
See, from your mother's eye no tear-drops flow. 
Far from our hearts we banish fears ; 
70 



THE SONG OF DEPARTURE. 'J I 

We triumph when in freedom's cause ye go, — 

Only for tyrant's eyes are tears. 
Warriors, we gave you Hfe, 't is true, 

But yours no more the gift can be ; 
Your Hves are now your country's due, 

She is your mother more than we. 
Come, brethren, the RepubHc calls, etc. 

Two Old Men. 

The old paternal sword becomes the brave, 

Remember us 'mid battle's rage : 
And let the blood of tyrant and of slave 

Honour the weapon blessed by age. 
Then to our humble cottage come ; 

With wounds and glory as your prize : 
When tyrants have received their doom. 

Then, children, come to close our eyes. 
Come, brethren, the Republic calls, etc. 

A Child. 

We envy Viala's and Barra's lot ; 

Victors were they, though doomed to bleed : 
Weighed down by years, the coward liveth not ; 

Who dies for freedom, lives indeed. 
With you we would all dangers brave, 

Lead us against our tyrants then : 
None is a child except the slave, 

While all republicans are men. 
Come, brethren, the Republic calls, etc. 

A Wife. 

Husbands, rejoicing, seek the plain of death, 

As patterns for all warriors shine ; 
Flowers will we pluck to make the victor's wreath, 

Our hands the laurel crown will twine. 



72 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

When, your blest manes to receive, 
Fame shall her portals open fling. 

Still in our songs your names shall live, 
From us shall your avengers spring. 

Come, brethren, the Republic calls, etc. 

A Young Girl. 

We, who know nouglit of Hymen's gentle fire, 

But sisters of your heroes are, 
We bid you, citizens, if you desire 

With us our destiny to share. 
Radiant with liberty to come, 

And glory purchased with }'Our blood. 
The joyful record bringing home 

Of universal brotherhood. 
Come, brethren, the Republic calls, etc. 

Three Warriors. 

Here, before God, upon our swords we swear 

To all who crown this life with joy. 
To mothers, sisters, wives, and children dear. 

The foul oppressor to destroy. 
Into the black abyss of night 

Hurled every guilty king shall be ; 
France o'er the world shall spread the light 

Of endless peace and liberty. 
Come, brethren, the Republic calls, etc. 



Nai'oi.eon, Commanher ok I'HE Army of Italy. 
Kmm an engraving by J. B. L. Massard, Fils, after J. B. F. Massaru. 

Paris, 1 80 1. 



THF BATTLE OF LODI. 

It was at one time a question in Napoleon's mind 
whether he would take side with the Royalists, or with 
the Republicans. He witnessed the awful scenes of the 
twentieth of June, and, again, the bloody tenth of August. 
Upon the latter occasion he is said to have spoken boldly 
against the weak defense made by the King and his 
party, and to have asserted how, had he been in com- 
mand, he would have destroyed the cowardly mob that 
assailed the Tuileries; and he proved, afterwards, on the 
13th Vendemaire, that he was capable of doing that 
very thing. " Had I been a general officer," he said, 
" I might have adhered to the Court party ; a sub- 
lieutenant, I sided with the Revolution." He took no 
active part in the terrible work of the Revolution, as it 
was carried on throughout the nation. He was a soldier, 
pure and simple, and obeyed the governing power, what- 
ever it might be, in fighting to protect France. In 1793 
he was named by the Committee of Public Safety as 
commander of the artillery at the siege of Toulon, and 
it was there he first demonstrated the military genius he 
possessed, and which, eleven years afterwards, placed him 
upon the throne of France and made him master of 
Europe. 

After the engagement at Toulon, Napoleon, for a time. 



74 '-i METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

dropped out of public sight, as any great factor in the 
history then being made. Arrested as a suspect and 
thrown into prison he barely escaped losing his head 
upon the scaffold. Released, only to be degraded in the 
army, he resigned his commission and seriously thought 
of offering his services to Turkey. Wandering around 
Paris, without money and with no prospects in view, the 
two years following Toulon were not uneventful ones in 
the life of the future Emperor. Fate was about to offer 
and he was about to grasp the opportunity of his life. 
In October, 1795, the Sections arose against the National 
Convention and the new constitution and, joined by the 
National Guard, the mob of Paris was about to try its 
strength once more against the recognised government. 
That government was a weak one ; its military comman- 
der proved himself wholly incapable of coping with the 
situation. The five thousand troops under his command, 
were no match for the forty thousand moving against 
them. It looked as though the Palace of the Tuileries 
was again to be drenched with the blood of its defenders, 
the existing government overthrown and its members 
sent to the guillotine. In sheer desperation, and as a last 
resort, the command of the government troops was offered 
to Napoleon, then a mere youth of twenty-five years of 
age. He accepted the commission ; but only upon con- 
dition that he was to have the absolute control and man- 
agement of the whole affair and was not to be interfered 
with in any way by the Convention. The result is a well 
known matter of history. With his five thousand mus- 
kets and his park of artillery, saved only by the rapidity 



THE BATTLE OF LODE 75 

of his action from the hands of the insurgents, he deluged 
the streets of Paris with blood. His argument with a 
mob — grapeshot — prevailed. France was saved, and 
Napoleon was one round nearer the top of the ladder. 

It was at this period Napoleon first met Josephine. A 
combination of love and ambition urged his suit forward, 
and, after a brief courtship, they were married by a civil 
contract, on the sixth of March, 1796. There can be little 
doubt that this marriage brought to Napoleon, as a wed- 
ding gift from Barras, the command of the Army of Italy. 
That command sent him to a field where he achieved 
some of his most brilliant successes. Concerning his 
marriage, he himself, is authority for the statement that 
his union with Josephine started him on the road to the 
throne of France ; while his divorce from her started him 
on the road to St. Helena. Montenotte, Milessimo, Lodi, 
Areola, and Rivoli were but a few of the wonderful 
battles fought and won by this youthful warrior, with his 
ragged and hungry army pitted against the skilled and 
veteran generals of Austria and Sardinia. His attacks in 
front and in rear, on the right and on the left flank, were too 
rapid an innovation in the art of war for the slow old book 
warriors of the past. 

The following poem is the only one we have been able 
to obtain in the English language, touching upon any 
part of the first Italian Campaign. It has no particular 
merit, and was written, evidently, after the author had 
read Campbell's " Hohenlinden," and in imitation (^f that 
well known poem. 



76 A METRICAL BIS TORY OF NAPOLEON. 

THE BATTLE OF LODI. 

Julia Augusta Maynard. 

The signals giv'n ! Impatient neigh 
The snorting chargers at the cry 

Which calls proud Austria forth to-day, 
To " charge with all her chivalry." 

Hark to the deep and muffled drum ! 

Announcing death so near at hand ; 
The foe ! the foe ! they onward come ; 

May heaven uphold the Austrian band ! 

Mark ye, the eagle standards wave 
Above the torrent's crimson tide ! 

Oh ! mark ye how for glory's grave 
Those gallant horsemen forward ride ! 

Two despots meet ; the one by right 
Defends what ages make his own ; 

The other, in the pride of might, 

Stands forth all-conquering and alone. 

This last, upon the battle-field, 

With eye which beams with living fire, 

Arm'd with a dread and puissant shield. 
Defies the German's wildest ire. 

Yon bridge, where slaughter yet unsate. 

Still revels in its gory bed. 
Groans now beneath the growing weight 

Of living — dying — and of dead. 

'T is o'er ! and France foredoom'd to sway 
Where'er her flashing eagle shone,. 

Hears the proud victor named that day 
In victory's shout — " Napoleon ! " 



PETIT JEAN. 

Upon Napoleon's return to Paris, after his first Italian 
campaign, he was received with the wildest enthusiasm 
by the people, and the Directory presented him with a 
splendid standard on which was the following inscription, 
which inscription told, in a few words, the history of the 
campaign: " He has defeated five armies, triumphed in 
eighteen battles and sixty seven combats. Taken prisoners 
one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers of the enemy. 
He has sent one hundred and sixty standards of the 
enemy to the different military establishments of France ; 
one thousand one hundred and fifty pieces of cannon to 
the arsenals; two hundred millions of francs to the trea- 
sury ; fifty-one ships of war to the ports ; treasures of art 
and literature to the galleries and libraries. He has signed 
nine treaties, all of great advantage to the Republic. He 
has given liberty to eighteen communities or nations." 

Unmoved by the plaudits and deaf to all the acclama- 
tions with which he was surrounded. Napoleon thought 
only of vaster schemes and more wonderful achievements. 
From his boyhood days the East had possessed for him a 
charm he could not shake off. Even in disgrace, he had 
thought of offering his services to Turkey, and now, 
encouraged by the victories he had won at Lodi and Ar- 
eola, he allowed his mind to be dazzled with the possibility 
of fulfilling his childhood's dream of building up an em- 
77 



78 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

pire in the East, which would surpass all others of ancient 
or modern times. The Directory, becoming jealous of 
the popularity of the young general, and willing to remove 
him from Paris and from France, listened to his arguments 
in favour of sending an expedition to Egypt, and in less 
than six months after his return from Italy he was on his 
way to the land of the Pharaohs. On July i, 1798, the 
shores of Egypt loomed up in sight and on the same 
evening the disembarkation of the troops commenced, 
which continued all the night. Early the next morning 
and while the army was still being landed, Napoleon at 
the head of three thousand men marched against the city 
of Alexandria, but a short distance away, and after a few 
hours conflict, his first Egyptian victory was won. Leav- 
ing Kleber with a small force at Alexandria, Napoleon 
with the rest of his army set out to cross the desert to 
Cairo. After five days of terrible suffering the Nile was 
reached, and on the morning of the twenty-first of July, 
just as the sun was showing itself above the horizon, 
Cairo appeared in sight upon the opposite bank of the 
river, and away to the right, out upon the trackless waste 
of sands, appeared those mighty monuments of unknown 
antiquity, the Pyramids, and their equally ancient and 
faithful sentinel, the Sphinx. Ten thousand Mameluke 
horsemen were between the French army and the base of 
these hoary giants of the Past ; and here was fought the 
battle, which in one day made Napoleon master of all 
Egypt. The valour of the French army, the drummer 
boy as well as the veteran, was tried and proved at the 
famous battle of the Pyramids. 



PETIT JEAN. 79 

PETIT JEAN. 

(At the battle of the Pyramids, July 21, 179S,) 

Mary A. Barr. 

Up rose the sun o'er Egypt's tents. 

O'er Egypts pyramids and sands, 
O'er fierce and fiery Mamelukes, 

And o'er Napoleon's veteran bands ; 
The palms stood still in the hot air, 

The sad and silent Sphinx looked on, 
While over all the Afric sun 

In burning, blinding splendour shone. 

The Mamelukes fretted on their steeds, 

Their cimeters all bright and bare ; 
The French stood grimly watching them, 

Napoleon in the centre square. 
He pointed to the Pyramids : 

" Comrades, from those grand heights, I say, 
The brave of forty centuries 

Will watch you draw your swords to-day ! " 

They answered him with ringing shouts, 

And ere the echoes died away, 
The van, like a tornado, charged. 

Led by the brave and bold Desaix. 
Then while the trusty " Forty-third " 

Stood waiting for the word to charge. 
They saw their little drummer-boy 

Come from the column of Dufarge. 

With tottering steps and bleeding breast, 
But bravely beating still his drum, 

He said with sad and tearful face, 
" O Forty-third, to you I 've come ; 



80 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

I Ve come to you, my regiment, 
For nothing but a child am I ; 

I 've come to you, my comrades brave. 
That you may teach me how to die ! 

" I '11 never shame you. Forty-third ; 

I want to be as brave and true ; 
I want to die as brave men die. 

So tell a poor child what to do." 
Then Regnier gnawed his long gray beard 

And Joubert turned his head away : 
The lad had been the pet of all. 

And now they knew not what to say, 

Till Regnier kissed the boy, and spoke : 

" Our Petit Jean, I see 't is plain 
Your place is with the Forty-third ; 

So beat us now the charge again. 
Then follow, and we'll show you how 

Death comes unto the soldier brave. 
Comrades, salute the nine-year-old, 

Who '11 bravely fill a soldier's grave ! " 

The men's hearts glowed like living coals, 

And Regnier cried, " Why do we stay?" 
And to the roll of the little drum 

They rode upon their vengeful way ; 
But each one as he passed the child 

His sword with earnest purpose drew, 
And cried in brave or tender tones, 

" Mon Petit Jean, Adieu ! Adieu ! " 

" I come, my regiment, I come ! " 
But never Petit Jean again 



PETIT JEAN. 

His drum beat for the Forty-third ; 

They found him lying with the slain. 
They put the medal on his breast, 

Together clasped his childish hands, 
And dug, with many a bitter tear, 

A grave for him in Egypt's sands. 

'T is near a century ago 

But still his memory is green ; 
The Regiment has not a name 

So dear as that of Petit Jean ; 
And many a weary soldier has 

To brave and noble deeds been stirred 
By the tale of the little nine-year-old 

Who died among the Forty-third. 



NAPOLEON AND THE SPHINX. 

After the decisive battle of the Pyramids, Napoleon 
entered Cairo with great pomp and enstalled himself in 
the magnificent palace of Mourad Bey. After restoring 
order and attending to the wants of the people ; with his 
gallant army comfortably encamped around the walls of 
the city, and with his mind filled with gigantic schemes 
for the future glory of his country, this wonderful man, 
not yet thirty years of age, rode out one day, unattended, 
to view those everlasting monuments, from whose summits 
forty centuries had looked down upon the terrific struggle 
just ended beneath their very shadows. Sitting motion- 
less upon his horse in front of the mysterious Sphinx, 
one does not have to stretch fancy very far in order to 
picture the following scene. 

NAPOLEON AND THE SPHINX. 

Charles Mackay. 

Beneath him stretched the sands of Egypt's burning 
lands. 
The desert panted to the sweltering ray ; 
The camel's plashing feet, with slow, uneasy beat, 
Threw up the scorching dust like arrowy spray. 
And fierce the sunlight glow'd as young Napoleon rode 
Around the Gallic camp, companionless that day. 
82 



NAPOLEON AND THE SPHINX. 83 

High thoughts were in his mind, unspoken to his kind ; 

Cahnwas his face — his eyes were blank and chill ; 
His thin lips were compress'd ; the secrets of his breast 

Those portals never pass'd, for good or ill ; 
And dreaded — yet adored — his hand upon his sword, 

He mused on destiny, to shape it to his will. 

" Ye haughty Pyramids ! thou Sphinx ! whose eyeless 
lids 

On my presumptuous youth seem bent in scorn, 
What though thou hast stood coeval with the flood — 

Of all earth's monuments the earliest born ; 
And I so mean and small, with armies at my call. 

And recent in thy sight as grass of yester-morn ! 

" Yet in this soul of mine is strength as great as thine, 
O dull-eyed Sphinx, that wouldst despise me now; 

Is grandeur like thine own, O melancholy stone, 
With forty centuries furrow'd on thy brow : 

Deep in my heart I feel what time shall yet reveal, 

That I shall tower o'er men, as o'er these deserts thou. 

" I shall upbuild a name of never-dying fame, 
My deeds shall fill the world with their renown ; 

To all succeeding years, the populous hemispheres 
Shall pass the record of my glories down ; 

And nations yet to be, surging from Time's deep sea, 
Shall teach their babes the name of great Napoleon. 

" On History's deathless page, from wondering age to age 
New light and reverence o'er that name shall glow. 

My deeds already done, are histories begun. 

Whose great conclusions centuries shall not know. 

O melancholy Sphinx ! Present w^ith future links. 
And both shall vet be mine. I feel it as I go." 



84 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Over the mighty chief a shadow came of grief, 
The hps gigantic seem'd to move and say — 

" Know'st thou his name that bid arise yon Pyramid ? 
Know'st thou who placed me where I stand to-day? 

Thy deeds are but as sand, strewn on the heedless land ; 
Think, little mortal, think! and pass upon thy way ! " 

" Pass, little mortal, pass ! grow like the vernal grass, 
The autumn sickle shall destroy thy prime. 

Bid nations shout the word which ne'er before they 
heard, 
The name of Glory, fearful yet sublime. 

The Pharaohs are forgot, their works confess them not; 
Pass, Hero ! pass ! poor straw upon the gulf of time." 



i 



THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 

In the midst of success and prosperity, and at the very 
dawn of the brightest day that had appeared to the 
Egyptians in centuries, Napoleon lost all. Through the 
negligence of Admiral Brueys, in not obeying his instruc- 
tions, the whole French fleet was destroyed in the bay of 
Aboukir, exactly ten days after the brilliant victory won 
at the battle of the Pyramids. Well might Nelson and 
the English nation shout for joy. Well might Napoleon 
exclaim with undescribable emotion : " Brueys, what have 
you done ! " 

THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 

William Lisle Bowles. 

Shout ! for the Lord hath triumphed gloriously ! 

Upon the shores of that renowned land. 

Where erst his mighty arm and outstretched hand 
He lifted high. 

And dashed, in pieces dashed the enemy ; — 
Upon that ancient coast, 
Where Pharaoh's chariot and his host 
He cast into the deep, 

Whilst o'er their silent pomp he bid the swollen sea to 
sweep ; 
Upon that eastern shore, • 
That saw his awful arm revealed of yore. 

Again hath he arisen, and opposed 

His foes' defying vaunt : o'er them the deep hath closed ! 
85 



86 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Shades of mighty chiefs of yore, 
Who triumphed on the self-same shore : 
Ammon, who first o'er ocean's empire wide 
Didst bid the bold bark stem the roaring tide ; 

Sesac, who from the east to farthest west 
Didst rear thy pillars over realms subdued ; 

And thou, whose bones do rest 
In the huge pyramid's dim solitude, 
Beneath the uncouth stone, 
Thy name and deeds unknown ; 
And Philip's glorious son, 
With conquest flushed, for fields and cities won ; 

And thou, imperial Caesar, whose sole sway 
The long-disputed world at length confessed, 

When on these shores thy bleeding rival lay ! 
Oh, could ye, starting from your long, cold rest, 

Burst Death's oblivious trance, 
And once again with plumed pride advance, 
Hov/ would ye own your fame surpassed, 
And on the sand your trophies cast, 
When, the storm of conflict o'er, 
And ceased the burning battle's roar, 
Beneath the morning's orient light. 
Ye saw, with sails all swelling white, 
Britain's proud fleet, to many a joyful cry, 
Ride o'er the rolling surge in awful sovereignty! 

Calm breathed the airs along the evening bay. 

Where, all in warlike pride. 
The Gallic squadron stretched its long array ; 

And o'er the tranquil tide 
With beauteous bend the streamers waved on high. 
But ah ! how changed the scene ere night descends ! 
Hark to the shout that heaven's high concave rends! 

Hark to that dying cry ! 



THE BA TTLE OF THE NILE. 87 

Whilst louder yet the cannon's roar 
Resounds along the Nile's affrighted shore, 
Where from his oozy bed, 
The cowering crocodile hath raised his head ! 
What bursting flame 
Lightens the long track of the gleaming brine ? 

From yon proud ship it came, 
That towered the leader of the hostile line ! 
Now loud explosion rends the midnight air ! 
Heard ye the last deep groaning of despair? 
Heaven's fiery cope unwonted thunders fill, 
Then with one dreadful pause, earth, air, and seas are 
still! 

But now the mingled fight 

Begins its awful strife again ! 
Through the dun shades of night 
Along the darkly heaving main 
Is seen the frequent flash ; 
And many a towering mast with dreadful crash 
Rings falling. Is the scene of slaughter o'er? 



Is the death-cry heard 



no more 



Lo ! where the east a glimmering freckle streaks. 
Slow o'er the shadowy wave the gray dawn breaks. 

Behold, O sun, the flood 
Strewed with the dead, and dark with blood ! 

Behold, all scattered on the rocking tide, 
The wrecks of haughty Gallia's pride ! 
But Britain's floating bulwarks, with serene 
And silent pomp, amid the deathful scene 
Move glorious, and more beautiful display 
Their ensigns streaming to thy orient ray. 

Awful Genius of the land ! 

Who (thy reign of glory closed) 



88 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

By marble wrecks, half hid with sand. 
Hast mournfully reposed ; 
Who long amid the wasteful desert wide, 
Hast loved with deathlike stillness to abide ; 
Or wrapped in tenfold gloom, 
From noise of human things for ages hid. 

Hast sat upon the shapeless tomb 
In the forlorn and dripping pyramid ; 

Awake ! Arise ! 
Though thou behold the day no more 
That saw thy pride and pomp of yore ; 
Though, like the sounds that in the morning ray 

Trembled and died away 
From Memnon's statue ; though, like these, the v^oice 
That bade thy vernal plains rejoice, 

The voice of Science, is no longer heard ; 
And all thy gorgeous state hath disappeared : 
Yet hear, with triumph, and with hope again, 
The shouts of joy that swell from thy forsaken main ! 



CASABIANCA. 

Many deeds of heroism are recorded to the credit of 
both the French and the Enghsh sailors who took part in 
the battle of the Nile. Admiral Brueys paid with his life 
the penalty for his lack of judgment and his failure to 
obey the instructions given him, and fell, fighting gal- 
lantly, upon the quarter-deck of his vessel. Nelson, 
though seriously hurt, refused to have his wounds at- 
tended to until every seaman who had been carried below 
before him had been taken care of. But of all the heroes 
of that day, young Casablanca, the son of the commander 
of the Orient, stands at the head. A lad of about thir- 
teen years of age, he had displayed the utmost activity 
and courage during the engagement. Just before the fire 
broke out, which destroyed his vessel, the Commander 
Casablanca, mortally wounded, had been carried into the 
gun-room. His son, not knowing of the fate which had 
overtaken his father, refused to leave his post, even after 
the fire had completely enveloped the vessel, until in- 
formed that his father was dying, when he at once ran to 
his side. No threat, no command could move him from 
that place, and when the fire reached the magazine and 
the Orient blew up, father and son went down to a 
noble grave, locked in each other's arms. Mrs. Hemans, 
although not adhering strictly to history, has immortal- 
ised young Casablanca's heroism. 



90 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

CASABIANCA. 

Felicia Hemans. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm ; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though childlike form. 

The flames rolled on; he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below. 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, " Say, father, say. 

If yet my task be done? " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

" Speak, father! " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath. 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father ! must I stay ! " 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud. 

The wreathing fires made way. 



CASABIANCA. 9 1 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 
.Vnd streamed above the gallant child, 

Like banners in the sky. 

Then came a burst of thunder sound ; 

The boy — Oh ! where was he ? 
Ask of the winds, that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea — 

With shroud and mast and pennon fair, 

That well had borne their part — 
But the noblest thing that perished there 

Was that young faithful heart. 



NAPOLEON IN BIVOUAC. 

Although the result of the battle of the Nile was a 
fatal blow to the hopes of Napoleon of ever being able 
to carry out, to a successful issue, his cherished schemes 
concerning the establishment of a mighty empire in the 
East, yet he did not relinquish the idea of doing a great 
work there. The gallant Desaix was sent in pursuit of 
Mourad Bey, and soon he had possession of all Upper 
Egypt, over which Napoleon made him Governor. The 
French scientists minutely examined and made record of 
every object of interest to be found in the country of the 
old Pharaohs. Napoleon, in person, inspected the pro- 
posed route of a canal at Suez, to connect the Mediter- 
ranean with the Red Sea, and it was at the identical spot 
where tradition tells us the children of Israel crossed the 
Red Sea that he and his party were nearly drowned by 
the rising tide. " Had I perished there like Pharaoh," 
he said, " it would have furnished all the preachers in 
Christendom with a magnificent text against me." Then 
followed the battle of Mount Tabor, the siege of Acre, 
and the glorious victory at Aboukir. Master of Egypt, 
his work done, so far as it lay in his power to accomplish 
it, in sight of Pompey's Pillar and Cleopatra's Needle, 
surrounded by the shades of those heroes who made 
ancient history famous, Napoleon, sitting before his tent 

92 



NAPOLEON IN BIVOUAC. 93 

with a map of the world on his knees, falls asleep, to 
dream, perchance, of future glory and the wondrous fate 
still to be his. 

NAPOLEON IN BIVOUAC. 

Ferdinand Freh.igrath. 

A watch-fire on a sandy waste — 

Two trenches — arms in stack — 
A pyramid of bayonets — 

Napoleon's bivouac ! 

Yonder the stately grenadiers 

Of Kleber's vanguard see ! 
The general to inspect them sits — 

Close by the blaze sits he. 

Upon his weary knee the chart. 

There, by the glowing heap, 
Softly the mighty Bonaparte 

Sinks, like a child to sleep. 

And stretched on cloak and cannon, 

His soldiers, too, sleep well, 
And, leaning on his musket, nods 

The very sentinel. 

Sleep on, ye weary warriors, sleep ! 

Sleep out your last hard fight ! 
Mute, shadowy sentinels shall keep 

Watch round your trench to-night. 

Let Murad's horsemen dash along ! 

Let man and steed come on ! 
To guard your line stalks many a strong 

And stalwart Champion. 



94 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

A Mede stands guard, who with you rode 
When you from Thebes marched back, 

Who after King Cambyses strode, 
Hard in his chariot's track. 



A stately Macedonian 

Stands sentry by your line, 
Who saw on Ammon's plain the crown 

Of Alexander shine. 

And, lo ! another spectre ! 

Old Nile has known him well; 
An Admiral of Caesar's fleet. 

Who under Caesar fell. 

The graves of earth's old lords, who sleep 

Beneath the desert sands, 
Send forth their dead, his guard to keep, 

Who now the world commands. 

They stir, they wake, their places take 

Around the midnight flame; 
The sand and mould I see them shake 

From many a mail-clad frame. 

I see the ancient armour gleam 

With wild and lurid light ; 
Old, bloody purple mantles stream 

Out on the winds of night. 

They float and flap around a brow 

By boiling passion stirred ; 
The hero, as in anger, now. 

Deep-breathing, grasps his sword. 



NAPOLEON IN BIVOUAC. 95 

He dreams ; — a hundred realms, in dream, 

Erect him each a throne ; 
High on a car, with golden beam. 

He sits as Ammon's son. 

With thousand throats, to welcome him 

The glowing Orient cries, 
While at his feet the fire grows dim. 

Gives one faint flash — and dies. 



THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 

The expedition to Egypt was not a success, except so 
far as it proved the skill of Napoleon and the valour of the 
French soldier, and that it added valuable information to 
the scientific world. The loss of his fleet completely 
isolated Napoleon and his army from France and the 
outside world. Had the battle of the Nile been won, and 
had Napoleon firmly established the empire he sought to 
build up from the inactivity and gloom of centuries, fancy 
can only conjecture what the future would have brought 
to him. As it was, the sovereignty of Egypt alone was 
too small a prize to satisfy the ambition of this wonderful 
young man. His greater plan had failed, so he put be- 
hind him the whole scheme and looked back to France 
for a more promising field. For ten months he had 
received no news from home, and now, when, through the 
means of Sir Sidney Smith, he had placed in his hands a 
file of French newspapers, he was informed that every- 
thing was going wrong in France ; that the army he had 
left so victorious in Italy had been driven over the Alps, 
and that the combined forces of Europe were marching 
to the frontiers of the harassed and sorely tried republic. 
He determined at once to return, and on the night of the 
twenty-second of August, 1799, with a few chosen com- 
rades, he left the shores of Egypt. The assassination of 
96 



THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 97 

the gallant Kleber, who had been assigned the command 
of the army, was a great loss to the French cause in 
Egypt, and, finally, the battle of Alexandria brought about 
the end — the evacuation of the country by the entire 
French army. 

THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 

James Montgomery. 

Harp of Memnon ! sweetly strung 

To the music of the spheres ; 
While the hero's dirge is sung, 

Breathe enchantment to our ears. 

As the sun's descending beams. 

Glancing o'er thy feeling wire, 
Kindle every chord that gleams. 

Like a ray of heavenly fire, 

Let thy numbers, soft and slow. 
O'er the plain with carnage spread, 

Soothe the dying while they flow 
To the memory of the dead. 

Bright as Beauty, newly born. 
Blushing at her maiden charms ; 

Fresh from Ocean rose the Morn, 
When the trumpet blew to arms. 

Terrible soon grew the light 

On the Egyptian battle-plain, 
As the darkness of that night 

When the eldest born was slain. 

7 



98 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Lashed to madness by the wind, 
As the Red Sea surges roar, 

Leave a gloomy gulf behind. 
And devour the shrinking shore; 

Thus, with overwhelming pride, 
Gallia's brightest, boldest boast. 

In a deep and dreadful tide. 
Rolled upon the British host. 

Dauntless these their station held. 
Though with unextinguished ire 

Gallia's legions thrice repelled, 

Thrice returned through blood and fire. 

Thus, above the storms of time, 
Towering to the sacred spheres. 

Stand the Pyramids sublime, — 
Rocks amid the floods of years. 

Now the veteran chief drew nigh ; 

Conquest towering on his crest, 
Valour beaming from his eye, 

Pity bleeding in his breast. 

Britain saw him thus advance 
In her guardian angel's form ; 

But he lowered on hostile France, 
Like the demon of the storm. 



On the whirlwind of the war 

High he rode in vengeance dire ; 

To his friends a leading star, 
To his foes consuming fire. 



THE BA TTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 99 

Then the mighty poured their breath, 

Slaughter feasted on the brave ! 
'T was the carnival of death : 

'T was the vintage of the grave. 

Charged with Abercrombie's doom, 

Lightning winged a cruel ball : 
'T was the herald of the tomb. 

And the hero felt the call,- — 

Felt, and raised his arm on high ; 

Victory well the signal knew, 
Darted from his awful eye. 

And the force of France o'erthrew. 

But the horrors of that fight 

Were the weeping muse to tell. 
Oh, 't would cleave the womb of night, 

And awake the dead that fell ! 

Gashed with honourable scars. 

Low in Glory's lap they lie ; 
Though they fell, they fell like stars. 

Streaming splendour through the sky. 



BONAPARTE. 

As early as i8ob England had begun to lampoon Napo- 
leon, and from that time until his death at St. Helena there 
was no cessation of the slanderous and scurrilous attacks 
made upon him by English writers. When these attacks 
became foul and indecent, and directly charged him and 
his whole family with indulging in the vilest kinds of de- 
bauchery and sensuality, Napoleon resented them and 
requested the English Government to suppress their pub- 
lication and to punish their authors. The answer to his 
request was the cowardly one that the English Govern- 
ment could not interfere with the liberty of the press. 
The following lines, written by an English clergyman 
shortly after the return of the French Army from Egypt, 
is a mild example of what was written and published at 
that time in England. Is it to be wondered at that 
Napoleon's hatred of the English began while he was yet 
a young man, and lasted even to the time of Sir Hudson 
Lowe, his English jailor during the last six years of 
his life? 

BONAPARTE ; 

AN HEROIC BALLAD, WITH A SERMON IN ITS BELLY, WHICH THAT 

RENOWNED WARRIOR AND MOST REVEREND THEOLOGIAN 

PREACHED AT HIS VISITATION OF THE GOOD PEOPLE 

OF EGYPT ; WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES. 

George Huddesford. 

Redoubted Drawcansirs, 
Extoll'd by our grandsires 

lOO 



BONAPARTE. 10 1 

In narrative, episode, stanza, or strophe, 

Philip's conquering son, 

Kouli Khan, Prester John, 
Knight, generahssimo, soldan, or sophi, 

Who have topp'd Fortune's wheel, 

And, with craft, cuffs, or steel, 
Have your rivals o'erreach'd, your antagonist quell'd 'em, 

Since you 've all had your day, 

For a royster make way. 
At whose nod the world quakes like a crazy old beldam. 

CHORUS. 

Like a devil he '11 fight, 

Like an angel indite ; 
Nay, should Merlin arise, who profess'd the black art, he 

And his imps would look blue. 

And his cats would cry "mew" 
At this raw-headed and bloody-bon'd chief, Bonaparte. 

In the month Vendemaire 

When, because that elsewhere 
To find worth like their own was a thing unexpected. 

Those desp'rate state-quacks. 

The Conventional Jacs, 
By bayonet suffrage themselves re-elected, 

On the banks of the Seine, 

With his rapier so keen, 
That eclips'd all the tools of chirurgical art, he 

Cur'd feverish Parisians 

Of heats and divisions ; 
Oh ! the skilful phlebotomist, fam'd Bonaparte! 



When he 's bled ye enough. 
Or of lead quantum suff. 



I02 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Has prescrib'd of pain, malady, suff'ring, and smart, he 

For aye sets you free ; 

Then let each grave M. D. 
To the dogs throw his physic, cries leech Bonaparte. 

Some aver that he 's sent, 

Heaven's Plenipotent, 
To organise Europe's political chaos : 

This we hope they '11 make good, 

Or from Lucifer's stud 
He might else be mistaken, perhaps, for a stray horse: 

But he scruples resign'd. 

For he 's promis'd mankind 
Of his mission supernal complete demonstration ; 

And the word none can doubt 

Of this chieftain devout. 
Who the creed has adopted of every nation. 



Like a devil he '11 fight, 

Like an angel indite ; 
Nay, should Merlin revive, who pofess'd the black art, he 

Would be somewhat surpris'd, 

When at once exorcis'd 
Of his family fiends by devout Bonaparte. 

To the African coast 

He led a huge host 
Of doughty proficients in bloodshed and rapine. 

Who the windpipes by scores 

Of Italian Signores 
Had sever'd, and spoil'd all their quavering and scraping. 

Alexandria they reach'd. 

Where a sermon he preach'd, 



BONAPARTE. IO5 

While Egyptians to hear him, like boys to a show ran. 

" Sure his old friend in black 

Has sent Mahomet back," 
Cried each Iman and Cheik, " to republish the Koran." 



Friend Rowland, I fear, 

You 'd look mighty queer, 
Should this militant holder-forth once come athwart ye 

Though you beat bulls of Basan 

In mouth diapason, 
You 're not fit to cry Amen to Saint Bonaparte ! 

He told the Egyptians 

All kinds and descriptions 
Of men in the eyes of their Maker were equal : 

" And truly," quoth he, 

" That they 're all so to me, 
I '11 warrant you, sirs, you shall find in the sequel : 

All 's fish to my net, 

I 've the Popedom o'er set. 
And those blockheads of Malta, destroy'd in a trice 'em ; 

And each Mameluck sot 

Shall now go to pot ; 
Then devoutly let 's join to anathematise 'em. 



" For from morning to night 

I can cant, curse, or fight " ; 
And should Merlin arise, who profess'd the black art, he 

And his cats would have star'd, 

And his imps have been scar'd, 
At the fulminant doctrines of Saint Bonaparte. 



I04 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" That I toil thus and plod 

For the honour of God, 
All must own who don't wilfully misunderstand it ; 

Let me rob, lie, or curse, 

Cut a throat or a purse, 
To sanction each crime I 've a heavenly mandate ; 

So for his soul's health, 

When the secular wealth 
Of the Pope I made free with, his pride I diminish'd 

And his claim to a mine 

Of treasures divine 
Ascertain'd, when his course apostolic was finish'd." 



Ye miserable crew. 

Think what must ensue 
Should Death, 'midst your money-bags strike with his 
dart ye ; 

Then give each his strong box 

To this Corsican fox, 
And your passport to heaven shall be sign'd — Bonaparte. 

" Stark blind he must be. 

Who 's unable to see, 
That Destiny guides all my grand operations ; 

Bade me sail from Toulon, 

Arm'd with sabre and gun. 
To teach Alexandrian sufferers patience : 

But since God me enjoin'd 

To be clement and kind 
To the people of Egypt, each Islamite brother, 

Who may doubt my good will, 

Cannot sure take it ill 
To be butcher'd in this world and damn'd in the other !" 



BONAPARTE. I05 

CHORUS. 

Oh, this merciful wight ! 

Sure his sermon poHte, 
If Merlin had heard, who profess'd the black art, he 

His conjuring cap 

Would have sold for a scrap 
Of the rhetoric employ'd by humane Bonaparte. 

"As for you, Mr. Pacha, 

Of me, Captain Flash, ah ! 
With what pleasure you '11 hail the auspicious arrival ! 

And advantage resulting 

From thence to the Sultan, 
When Mameluck knaves to Old Nick I shall drive all ; 

You 're in pitiful case, 

P^or their rascally Beys, 
Whom you ought to control, keep you under at Cairo ; 

But they sha'n't show their noses, 

I 'm greater than Moses, 
And I '11 plague the dogs worse than that prophet did 
Pharaoh." 



Then let 's curse the vile race 

Of these impious Beys ; 
And should Merlin arise, who profess'd the black art, he 

And his quorum of wizards 

Would growl in their gizzards, 
To be outdone a cursing by Saint Bonaparte. 

" Most orthodox Mufti, 
(Don't think I talk stuff t' ye) 
Were it not that the Mam'luck 's alive and looks still grim, 
And that first my grand mission 
Exacts his perdition. 



I06 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON, 

To Medina I 'd trot, a true Mussulman pilgrim : 

Shall the Mameluck brag, 

That your house or your nag. 
He '11 make free with, and, if you 've a pretty girl take 
her? 

Well your Reverence may stare ! 

This would make a saint swear ; 
Then seize him, ye black angels, Moukir and Quakir ! " 



Oh ! this Mameluck dog, 

Who eats up your prog, 
And, by hook or by crook, wins each pretty slave's 
heart, he 

Shall find such curst vermin 

To slay and extermin- 
Ate, Mahomet sends in the nick Bonaparte. 

" For, excepting your own, 

Other prophet there 's none 
Whose predictions I hold to be worthy of credence : 

Of my feats he has wrote, 

So no hole in his coat 
I shall pick, — all the rest yields to Me the precedence : 

In each heart, in each head, 

Ev'ry crotchet I 've read, 
Ev'ry thought I develop, in knowledge surpass all ; 

In vain to my course 

Is oppos'd human force ; 
Success crowns my efforts, and Fortune 's my vassal." 



Cheiks, Imans, and Cadis, 
Oh, what a rare blade is 



I 



BONAPARTE. lO/ 

This Corsican preacher, who sail'd from afar t' ye ! 
One Prophet 's your boast, 
Now you 've two to your cost 

Ask the Devil, and he '11 make a third of the party. 

" To the doctrine I broach, 

Which is sound as a roach, 
Bid Egyptians attend for their edification : 

Each suffering race 

Is advancing apace 
To the aera of politic Regeneration : 

Then like gold from the mint 

Though you '11 shine, take a hint, 
The regeneration that 's wrought by my soldiers. 

Of Cheik, Dervise, or Copt, 

When the head we have cropp'd, 
Will ne'er make another head sprout from his shoulders. 



" Then our knav'ry abet ; 

And expel that curs'd set, 
The English — ('t is Mahomet's orders I bear t' ye) 

And of heav'n you '11 be cits. 

Where fresh, black-ey'd young tits 
You shall snore by the side of: — believe Bonaparte." 

But when Nelson with Brueys 

And his ships play'd the deuce 
Burnt, captur'd, or sunk, or blown out of the water ; 

To regen'rate the navy 

Dispatch'd to Old Davy, 
Was a project that non-pluss'd the regenerator. 

Then off in a pet 

For Acre he set ; 
" Dgezzar Pacha's no more, in three days you shall hear. 



I08 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

But methinks 't were as well, 
Ere the bear's skin you sell, 
To make sure mighty warrior, of killing the bear : 



For, thanks to Sir Sidney, 

And tars of his kidney, 
Old Dgezzar 's at Acre alive yet and hearty ; 

While the French, foil'd and bit. 

To the bottomless pit 
He damns, with their vapouring chief, Bonaparte. 

Such an awkward rebuff 

As our hero so bluff 
Never yet had encounter'd, he took it in dudgeon ; 

Thought this little great Don, 

Let ev'ry man John 
Stay and perish in Egypt, to France I '11 be trudging: 

There to cut a grand swell. 

Of the thousands I '11 tell, 
That were slain in hot blood by my myrmidons bold ; 

But the notable trick 

That I play'd my own sick 
I '11 suppress, and the thousands I murder'd in cold. 

CHORUS. 

Sure the wit in my sconce 

That of all my savants 
Put together outweighs, for in proof of my art I 

Know the time when to run. 

And save number one ; 
'' Gallant leaders are scarce," quoth discreet Bonaparte. 

This chief, stout and mighty. 
He ne'er said, " Good-by t' ye," 



BONAPARTE. IO9 

But Stole off ; and as soon as he reach'd the French 
shore, he 

For his brave tergiversing, 

And murd'ring and cursing, 
Was deservedly deem'd to be " cover'd with glory " ; 

While the Monsieurs all strove, 

By their shouting, to prove 
That their lungs were as sound as their brains they were 
addle : 

Then like over-drove hacks, 

They all bow'd down their backs ; 
And this new Alexander jump'd into the saddle. 



And since he 's got there, 

Unhorse him who dare, 
Let his French Rosinante kick, curvet, and start, he 

Sticks spurs in his sides. 

And to Belzebub rides, 
Like a beggar on horseback, the grand Bonaparte. 

While the French sneak and quail. 

And their despot regale 
With a hodge-podge of praise that would make a dog sick,. 

The free British press, 

Without fear of finesse, 
Speaks truth of the Consul in spite of Old Nick. 

He, fierce as a Tartar, 

To give us no quarter, 
His cut-throats commands, should they once come across 
us. 

And swears he '11 leap over 

Our channel to Dover; 
A pretty good stride for a pocket Colossus ! 



10 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON, 



Fam'd Giant Woglog, 

Though this Consular frog, 
In dimensions compar'd is no more than a wart t' ye, 

With a long bow he shoots, 

And " your seven-league boots 
To a hair they would fit me," quoth grand Bonaparte ! 

Let our plaudits enhance 

The wisdom of France, 
Since the blood of her princes and nobles she shed. 

And so sensibly chose, 

With a ring in her nose, 
At a Corsican harlequin's will to be led. 

What if French, Dons, and Dutch, 

He has got in his clutch, 
Controls the Italians, and tramples the Switzers, 

Yet he 'd fain come and dine, 

On our English sirloin. 
But he fears we shall curry his hide with the spit, sirs. 



Sure a chief so renown'd 

Was not born to be drown'd ; 
But when he 's safe landed, John Bull says, a cart he 

And a gibbet and cord 

Keeps in store to reward 
The transcendent deserts of the grand Bonaparte. 



Napoleon, First Consul. 

From an engraving by I.e Vachex. 

Paris, 1806. 



THE BELLS OF FONTAINEBLEAU. 

On the morning of the eighth of October, 1799, a 
French fleet of four vessels dropped anchor in the harbour 
of Fregus. Never, perhaps, in the history of the world, 
had any fleet, large or small, convoyed so important a 
personage as did this little insignificant squadron of two 
frigates and two corvettes. A signal at the masthead of 
the flagship told the people on shore that Napoleon Bona- 
parte was on board. For fifty days had these vessels been 
tossed about by adverse winds upon the bosom of the 
Mediterranean, surrounded and sought for by the power- 
ful squadrons of England, Russia, and Turkey. The very 
day before Fregus was reached, the English fleet was 
sighted in the distance, and the last night spent on board 
ship was, indeed, a trying one to Napoleon and those who 
accompanied him. The morning sun arose, clear and 
bright, and revealed the enemy far away to the horizon, 
and France and safety near at hand. 

Napoleon's return from Egypt was hailed by all France 
with loud shouts of joy. On every side went up the cry : 
" Long live Bonaparte, the Conqueror of Italy, the Con- 
queror of Egypt, the Liberator of France."' Leaving 
Fregus the day after landing. Napoleon travelled, as 
rapidly as post-horses could carry him, on to Paris, which 
city he entered on the seventeenth of October. The i8th 



112 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Brumaire (November 9, 1799) ; the overthrow of the 
Directory, and the establishment of a new Consular gov- 
ernment, with Napoleon named as one of the Consuls, 
are matters of history familiar to every reader. Though 
not decreed First Consul, Napoleon assumed that position 
at the first meeting held with his colleagues, and neither 
they nor the people disputed his right to it. In fact, the 
new constitution, adopted shortly afterwards by a vote 
of over three millions to about fifteen hundred, expressly 
named him First Consul of the French Republic. The 
middle of the ladder was reached, and passed, and four 
years more would see this world's wonder at the top. 
Peace was soon restored to France, but it was not to last. 
In May, 1800, we find the First Consul again preparing 
for war. All his efforts to avert it had failed ; and like an 
avalanche he was about to fall upon his foes and crush 
them. 

The following picture of Napoleon is a good one, ex- 
cept the fact that he was First Consul and not Emperor, 
and there were then no Marshals yet in his train. 

THE BELLS OF FONTAIXEBLEAU. 

Waltkr Thornbury. 

Napoleon in the gray surtout 

That kings had learned to dread. 
With close-clenched hands behind his back 

And heavy bended head, 
Climbed slowly (lost in battle plans) 

A hill near Fontainebleau, 
One, two, three, four, the village chimes 

Came to him from below. 



THE BELLS OF FONTAINEBLEA U. II3 

The marshals, glittering with gold, 

Paced laughingly along, 
Nor hushed the scandal and the jest, 

Or scrap of opera song ; 
The Emperor stood silent there, 

A monarch turned to stone, 
Nor smiled, nor moved, — where great men stand 

The spot becomes a throne. 

Below, the reapers, singing, toiled 

With sickles (not with swords), 
Or down in clusters round the sheaves 

Lay revelling like lords ; 
The soldiers pointed to the slopes 

That bound the golden plain, 
And almost wished that France were lost, 

To win it o'er again. 

The gray man stood, one foot outstretched, 

As if upon a foe, 
He cared not for the happy sight, 

The plenty spread below. 
Although the bells shook music down 

From yonder village tower, — 
And hark ! the royal voice of Time, 

Exulting in his power. 

At last he spoke, and slowly turned 

(A moisture in his eyes), — 
Massena gave a shrug that showed 

A cynical surprise : 
" Long years ago, at Malmaison, 

When all unknown of men, 
I heard just such a laughing peal. 

And I was happy then." 



114 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

He turned upon his heel, and then 

Sat down upon the hill, 
Tracing upon the level sand 

With sword-sheath (Oh, that will ! ) 
The star redoubt, the diamond fort, 

The battle lines again : — 
A month from that he won the day 

Upon Marengo's plain. 



NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS. 

The successful crossing of the Alps by the French 
army, over the Great St. Bernard and other passes, was a 
feat worthy the genius of Napoleon. Hannibal had con- 
quered a way over those snow-clad hills, why should not 
he ? Sending his engineers ahead to reconnoitre the 
proposed route, they returned and reported a passage 
possible. " Let us set forward then," was the immediate 
answer, and the troops were at once in motion. The 
passage of the main army, commanded by Napoleon in 
person, was over the Great St. Bernard, and it took four 
days to accomplish it. Not an accident of note occurred ; 
and with his infantry, his cavalry, and his artillery intact, 
and safely past the barrier which had separated him from 
his enemies, Napoleon was about to surprise the Austrians 
and to astonish the whole civilised world by the brilliancy 
and rapidity of his movements, and by the result obtained 
in the glorious victory won at Marengo. 

NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS. 

James William Miller. 

The morning sun lay bright and calm. 

On Bernard's hoary brow ; 
No warlike trumpet's fierce alarm. 

Woke the stern echoes now. 



Il6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

You would have deem'd, in that still hour. 
No mortal voice might there have power. 

Then stood upon that voiceless height 

One Form, in like proud rest; 
Yet fires, that gave his great eye light. 

Were struggling in his breast : 
It heav'd, as Alpine mountains heave 
When earthquakes in their wombs conceive. 

And, Bernard, know'st thou not the tread, 

That prostrate kingdoms know. 
That stands upon thy haughty head. 

As o'er a conquered foe ! 
Know'st thou not him whose trump shook down 
Thy avalanche, as monarch's crown ! 

Yet thou shalt know him, when his name 

Shalt shake a world ; and thou 
Shalt lend thine echoes to his fame. 

Thy laurels for his brow. 
His mountain-monument shall be 
Coeval, haughty Alp, with thee. 

Already his proud glance is turn'd 

Up from his conquest's scene ; 
And kneeling Italy is spurn'd, 

As captive all too mean ! 
From the stern victor's brow, in scorn, 
The chieftain's blood-won wreath is torn. 

Even now, as from a mighty throne. 

The monarch's eye looks forth. 
The deserts of the torrid zone — 

The icebergs of the north — 
Melt in his fierce ambition's blaze, 
Or chill with terror in his gaze. 



NAPOLEON CROSSING THE ALPS. 11/ 

He Stood alone : the watching forn:is 

Of the few bending near, 
Were darken'd in his bosom's storms, 

And silent to his ear. 
Had he not bid his legions go, 
Nor heard their parting trumpets blow! 

Had he not passed through banner'd host 

And cannon's flash, as one 
Who in the desert's maze is lost ! 

He stood there — all alone. 
And spoke in accents proud and high 
His doom — " I will be great — or die." 



NAPOLEON AT ISOLA BELLA. 

The Duchess of Devonshire, in her Anecdotes and Bio- 
graphical Sketches, writes as follows to a friend under 
date of June, 1822: "We went to the Isola Bella, and 
there saw (but faintly) what Bonaparte had written on a 
tree — ' Batalia.' It was the first time he went to Milan, 
and whilst still only General, and is carved on the rind of 
the largest laurel I ever saw — quite a tree, like a good 
siz'd elm tree. Was it an omen of his future glory, and 
did he so chuse it as great was his glory — and great his 
downfall? — never was greater moral lesson given to 
man." 

Lord Lytton, in making this incident in Napoleon's 
life the subject of the following poem, asserts that it was 
a few days before the battle of Marengo that the incident 
occurred ; which account would agree with that given 
by the Duchess of Devonshire. Other historians have 
mentioned the same fact, and there seems to be no 
doubt of its truth. 

NAPOLEON AT ISOLA BELLA. 

Lord Lytton. 

O Fairy island of a fairy sea. 

Wherein Calypso might have spelled the Greek, 
Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury, 

Culled from each shore her zephyr's wings could seek 
From rocks where aloes blow. 



NAPOLEON AT ISOLA BELLA. II9 

Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise ; 

The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon ; 
An India mellows in the Lombard skies, 

And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun, 
Smile to yon Alps of snow. 

Amid this gentlest dreamland of the wave 

Arrested, stood the wondrous Corsican ; 
As if one glimpse the better angel gave 

Of the bright garden-life vouchsafed to man 
Ere blood defiled the world. 

He stood, — that grand Sesostris of the North, — 

While paused the car to which were harnessed kings, 

And in the airs, that lovingly sighed forth 
The balms of Araby, his eagle-wings 
Their sullen thunder furled. 

And o'er the marble hush of those large brows 
Dread with the awe of the Olympian nod, 

A giant laurel spread its breathless boughs, 
The prophet-tree of the dark Pythian god, 
Shadowing the doom of thrones ! 

What, in such hour of rest and scene of joy. 
Stirs in the cells of that unfathomed brain ? 

Comes back one memory of the musing boy, 
Lone gazing at the yet unmeasured main. 
Whose waifs are human bones ? 

Write on the sacred bark such native prayer, 
As the mild power may grant in coming years. 

Some word to make thy memory gentle there ; 
More than renown, kind thought for men endears 
A hero to mankind. 



I20 A METRICAL JII STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Slow moved the mighty hand, — a tremor shook 

The leaves, and hoarse winds groaned along the wood 

The Pythian tree the damning sentence took, 
And to the sun the battle-sword of blood 
Glared from the gashing rind. 

So hast thou writ the word, and signed thy doom : 

Farewell, and pass upon thy gory way. 
The direful skein the pausing Fates resume ! 

Let not the Elysian grove thy steps delay 
From thy Promethean goal. 

The fatal tree the abhorrent word retained 

Till the last battle on its bloody strand 
Flung what were nobler had no life remained, — 

The crownless front, and the disarmed hand, 
And the foiled Titan soul ; 

Now, year by year, the warrior's iron mark 

Crumbles away from the majestic tree, 
The indignant life-sap ebbing from the bark 

Where the grim death-word to humanity 
Profaned the Lord of Day. 

High o'er the pomp of blooms, as greenly still. 
Aspires that tree, — the archetype of fame, 

The stem rejects all chronicles of ill, 

The bark shrinks back, — the tree survives the same. 
The record rots away. 



Desaix. 
From an engraving by Elizabeth (i. Herhan after Guerin, 

Pari-,, 1798. 



THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. 

Had Napoleon lost the battle of Marengo, it is safe to 
say he never would have worn the crown of France. A 
return to Paris, defeated in Italy, meant for him a forced 
retirement from the head of National affairs and the sub- 
stitution of Carnot, or some other sturdy republican in 
his place. With such a change, at that time, Waterloo, 
in all human probability would never have been fought, 
and " Napoleon at St. Helena " would never have become 
history. The escape was a narrow one. In the space of 
half an hour, what appeared to be a crushing defeat was 
turned into a glorious victory. To Desaix's opportune 
arrival upon the field and to Kellerman's masterly cavalry 
charge, a great share of the glory of that day is due. The 
victory won was decisive and the campaign ended with 
the close of the battle. Within two months after leaving 
Paris, Napoleon returned — again the saviour of France. 

The campaign of 1800 will ever be recorded as one of 
the most brilliant achievements in history, and the one 
which bore the mightiest results to the man who planned 
and carried it out to a successful issue. 

THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. 
(By Bonaparte.) 

Robert Mack. 
From flattering crowds, and laurel crowns. 
To muse in thought profound, 



122 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

An evening's hour I sometimes seize, 
And sigh beneath the Western breeze, 
Which o'er these torn demolish'd trees, 
Floats awfully around. 

My friend — how mournful are these plains ; 
How deep the solemn silence reigns, 

Where nature lately smil'd ! 
Yonder where tulips blooming stood, 

And roses blush'd around ; 
Gaunt mastiffs gorge, on lapper'd blood, 

And vultures sweep the ground ! 
All round for miles, tremendous ruin 's spread ! 
By whom ? you '11 cry : 
Heaven, I reply. 
Melas and I 
Were but the instruments, by whom whole nations bled ! 

Friend L., to you, on trembling wing. 
The muse in shudd'ring tones shall sing, 

Thalia's self shall tell ; 
Shall paint that bloody scene, that dreadful sight, 
Which stopp'd the songs in heaven, and turn'd the day 
to night, 

And made a pause in hell ! 
Seraphs, from heaven's high battlements, 

Look'd down, and dropp'd a tear. 
Wrap'd round with smoke, form'd gloom, the sun 

Gleam'd with a blacken'd red ! 
While devils, thinking time was done. 
That God, to finish had begun, 
And the last hour at last was come. 
Darted from earth, swift to their home, 

And hid in hell for fear ! 



THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. 1 25 

When from the slumbers of the night, 

At morning light I rose, 
My soul unusual ardours felt, 

Seem'd kindling to a flame ; 
Impell'd by heaven, my horse I sprung, 

And bounded to the plain. 
Then what a sight my wondering eyes beheld! 
Austria's legions tow'ring o'er the field ! 
Compact and strong, 
The dreadful throng, 
Mov'd firmly on ; 
As if to force the Gaulic lines, or storm the gates of Death ! 
If that 's your mind, exclaim'd my soul, 
Hungary's passing bell may toll, 
For here in blood your chiefs shall roll, 
And pant away their breath. 

Along Bormida's broken hills. 

Between the river and the north. 

To keep our foes from marching forth. 

Our army held its posts ; 
The spacious plain, that lay between 
Those hills and deep Bormida's stream, 

Roar'd with the Austrian hosts. 
One noble pass, nature had here supplied ; 
A smooth defile some hundred paces wide. 

At all these posts our lines were thin, 

For brave Desaix, with half the men. 

Lay in reserve behind. 

But seeing now, the hour was come. 

When all was lost and all was won, 

I cried, " Let swiftest couriers run. 

And all our powers be joined." 

Meantime, the Austrian phalanx form'd 
In terrible array ; 



124 A METRICAL HISTORY' OF NAPOLEON. 

Proud Melas, in refulgent arms, 

Rides through his host, their courage warms. 

And cries — " Behold the day : 
Behold the day, by Heaven design'd, 
To crush th' oppressors of mankind ! 
Be men this day, and down the tyrant's hurl'd. 

This day, the Corsican comes down ; 
This day we ransom Capet's Crown, 
And peace restore unto a bleeding world ! 

This said, to eighty thousand men, 

The bloody word was given ; 
Whose dread reply embowell'd air. 

Shook earth, and enter'd heaven ! 

In haste, through Gallia's lines I rode, 

Along the dreadful van ! 
With military grandeur swell'd, 

I scarcely felt as man ! 
To ardent warriors, loud I cried : 
" Ye sons of France, ye heroes tried 

Beneath the burning sun, 
Who thrice have thunder'd down the Alps, 

And Italy o'errun ; 
Ye shakers of Vienna's walls ! 
To you, your former glory calls : 
I 'm too immense for faith, without renewed proof. 

In thunder, then, convince the world. 
Your standard over conquer'd Nile unfurl'd. 
That mighty Charles and Wurmser overthrown. 
Those proud defenders of a tyrant's throne, 
And Joseph hiring carts, to move his home, 

Were but the opening wonders of your youth." 

On this, the horrid scene began, 
And the dread tempest fell : 



THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. 1 25 

'T was then, Marengo's thunders roar'd, 

Down to the gates of hell ! 
For three long hours, the flame, the roar, 
The dying screams, the streams of gore, 
Waited on death, triumphing o'er 

The undecided field. 
At length o'er Austria's Eagles victory hung, 
My unsupported legions were o'ercome — 
And all the chance, seem'd now from France, 

Either to die, or yield. 
This helpless situation, flow'd 

From my mistake alone ; 
For when I bid the trumpets sound, 

I thought Desaix was near ; 
When Oh, alas ! almost too late I found. 
His legions lay full three leagues in the rear! 

Of all the dreadful hours I've seen, 

Pregnant v/ith nations' fates, 
The muse yet never witness'd one, 

Like that she now relates? 
On either hand, our wings were turn'd ; 

The centre only, stood ; 
Guarding the dread defile, which roll'd 

With rivulets of blood ! 
Upon the right, a strange tremendous sound 
Was heard, like thousands in despair : 
Each, in a panic scream. 
Not quite, but half, by thund'ring cannons drown'd, 
It died away, along Bormida's stream, 
Like the dire wailings of the unhappy dead, 
A sinking down to worlds unknown. 
With terror, and with dread ! 

Had Melas one decisive charge 

Made through the hollow way, 



126 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Scarce heaven itself, could have retriev'd 

The fortunes of the day. 
But thinking all our powers were join'd, 

Restrained by heaven or fear ; 
He sent his forces three miles round. 

To take us in the rear. 
Not knowing, all that stopp'd his progress then 
Was barely just six thousand weary men ! 

On whom for fear, lest we should charge. 

He made his cannon roar — 
Vomiting death amongst our ranks, 

Till down, around their gasping dead ; 
Floated the Gaulic gore ! 

'T was in this dreadful hour, I rose 

Above my former fame ; 
From friends, obtesting heaven, I would retire ; 
I broke, and brav'd the whole Austrian fire. 

Across the bleeding plain. 
From rank to rank, on every side I flew, 

Serenely calm ; — " My friends," I cried, 

" Desaix is just in view." 
The bosom of the earth was tore 

Beneath my courser's feet — 
Whole platoons dropp'd, amidst their gore — 
The shiver'd trees, in fragments fell around. 
And join'd the cumbrous carnage of the ground 
. While horrid devastation rag'd along. 

And ruin seem'd complete! 
At length like showers, to sun-burnt flowers, 

The great deliverers came ; 
Raging they broke, through fire and smoke. 

And hillocks of the slain ! 

Transported at the long wished aid. 
My daring plans were in a moment laid. 



THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. 12 J 

The troops, I in a solid column form'd ; 
Resolv'd to send, down to the world beneath, 
Thousands, to tell the Austrian lines were storm'd, 
Or Bonaparte had resign'd his breath ! 
But one half hour, these grand arrangements took ; 

During which time, disgorging flame. 
Red globes, and death, across the plain, 

One hundred cannons, roar'd amain ; 

Till heaven and earth resounding rung — 
With the dire clamour shook ! 

At length, prepar'd, the bleeding front. 

To right and left I wheel'd ; 
And bade the column, form'd behind. 

Rush thund'ring to the field. 
The hornd pas de charge, at once was given, 
Its tones re-murmur'd from the vault of heaven ; 
While like tremendous rolling flames, 
By raging tempests driven, 
The column in a torrent pour'd 
On the Austrian host ; 
O'er bellowing cannons, and the dead ; 
O'er those that fought, and those that fled ; 
Like Etna's burning lava red, 
Roaring, resistless, down it spread ; 
With bayonets plunging, down to Pluto's dreary coasts 
Thousands, who are now wandering there, 
Pale, melancholy ghosts ! 

Thus ended this tremendous day 

Of terrible renown ; 
'T was thus, I snatch'd bright victory's prize. 
Perhaps, the Imperial Crown. 
But while we triumph, tears should pour, 
For brave Desaix is gone : 



128 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

As down upon the foes he bore, 
Leading the van, thund'ring before, 
Fate flew, and down amidst the gore, 
He fell without a groan ! 
Hem'd round with glory, lo ! he dies; 

And worlds must do the same ! 
Even then, o'er nature's smoking wreck, 
Deathless, shall live the grandeur of his name, 
Borne on Marengo's dreadful sound 
To everlasting fame. 



TO NAPOLEON. 

The immediate result of the victory won at Marengo, 
was an armistice, entered into between Melas and Napo- 
leon, by the terms of which all Italy was to be given by 
Austria to the young conqueror. It took Moreau's vic- 
tory at Hohenlinden to bring about, finally, this desired 
result ; but Napoleon's active field operations endetl for 
that campaign at Marengo, and he returned to Paris — 
having in five weeks, with an army one half the size of 
that opposing him, accomplished one of the most wonder- 
ful military feats of his truly wonderful career. His jour- 
ney to Paris was a continued march of triumph. " Bon- 
fires, illuminations, the pealing of bells, and the thunder 
of artillery accompanied him all the way." At Lyons, 
especially, he was greeted with the wildest enthusiasm, 
and at a breakfast given him by the Prefect of that city, 
the following verses, composed for the occasion, were 
sung. 

TO NAPOLEON. 

M. Delandine. 

Warriors, see ! this valued guest, 
This hero through the world confest. 
This Bonaparte, by all ador'd, 
Consents to share our festive board. 
With laurel-wreaths his brow be bound, 

9 I2g 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

His ardent brow with glory crown'd. 
Haste — the first of victors he, 
The conqueror of victory. 

But yesterday he claim'd the plain, 
To-day the arts his care obtain ; 
His hand, by which each rampart falls, 
Lyons, rebuilds thy ruin'd walls. 
With laurel wreaths, etc. 

Of Grecian Hercules no more. 
Though much his wonders charm'd of yore 
Lo ! France presents, in modern hours, 
A Hercules of ampler pow'rs. 

With laurel wreaths, etc. 

Brave was Caesar, brave and wise, 
With equal fire our hero vies : 
" See, fight, conquer, friends ! " said he ; 
He said, and Italy was free. 

With laurel wreaths, etc. 

Long for our progeny may heav'n 
Preserve to thee the being giv'n ! 
To prosper earth thy years increase. 
And grant, at least, an age of peace. 
With laurel wreaths, etc. 



THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 

Napoleon returned to Paris in the middle of the night 
of July 2, 1800. The next day, as soon as his arrival 
became known, the whole city turned out to welcome him. 
As Hazlitt well puts it : " It was a day, like which few 
occur in history ; yet in this instance how many such were 
crowded into the life of a single man." 

The period of the armistice having expired and Austria 
having refused to accept its terms, the French armies 
were again set in motion. Macdonald crossed the Alps 
in the dead of winter, and achieved brilliant victories for 
the French cause. Moreau, on the Rhine, commenced 
that memorable winter campaign, which ended so glori- 
ously at the terrible battle of Hohenlinden. At midnight, 
on the third of December, 1800, in the midst of a raging 
snowstorm, the French and Austrian armies met. The 
terrific and awful combat which followed has been immor- 
talised by Campbell in the poem so familiar to every 
schoolboy. 

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. 

Thomas Campbkll. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow. 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 
131 



132 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to hght 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed. 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neighed, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
Then rushed the steed to battle driven, 
And louder than the bolts of heaven. 
Far flashed the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser rolling rapidly. 

'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave. 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave. 
And charge with all thy chivalry ! 

Few, few shall part where many meet ! 
The snow shall be their winding sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 



i8oi, 



The victory won at Hohenlinden forced the treaty of 
Luneville. That treaty secured to France peace with all 
the world, England alone excepted. It can hardly be 
said, with truth, that Napoleon stood in the way of a 
general peace at that time. He certainly showed by word 
and by deed that he wanted no more war. Master of the 
land, as England was mistress of the sea, he expressed 
himself as willing to meet his great and powerful enemy 
half way in negotiations for peace ; but further he would 
got go. 

Wordsworth's idea of the man was wrong, and by 
his standard of what should go to make up a great 
ruler, Napoleon cannot be measured. He was an excep- 
tion to all rules. The times, the circumstances, the con- 
dition of things by which he was surrounded left him, up 
to this time, i8oi, no other course to pursue than the one 
he followed. For the mistakes he afterwards made, he 
could not then be judged. Nor should it be taken for 
granted that true power always grows upon the stalk 
named by Wordsworth. The lives of many great military 
men who have been called upon to rule over nations, 
prove the contrary. 



134 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

1801. 

William Wordsworth. 

I grieved for Bonaparte, with a vain 
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood 
Of that man's mind — what can it be ? what food 
Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could he gain 
'T is not in battles that from youth we train 
The Governor who must be wise and good, 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : 
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk 
Of the mind's business ; these are the degrees 
By which true Sway doth mount ; this is the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 



THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOUR.'' 

The only peace agreed to between France and England 
during the Napoleonic wars was that known as the " Peace 
of Amiens," which lasted from March, 1802, until May, 
1803. During the existence of that peace the wliole 
world, as it were, rushed to Paris, to catch a glimpse of 
the man who had wrought such mighty changes in so 
short a time. The obscure Corsican had become the 
greatest man of the times. Emperor of France, in all 
but name, his Court began to take on all the trappings 
and ceremonies of royalty. Holding the reins of power 
absolutely within the grasp of his own hands, he tolerated 
no interference, either by his colleagues or by the people. 
In peace, as in war, he rested not, but laboured incessantly 
for the advancement of his country, whose needs he 
seemed to comprehend fully. Society was reorganised 
for the better ; judicial reforms were perfected, and the 
Code pushed forward towards completion ; the educa- 
tional system of the nation was thoroughly revised and 
improved ; the relations between church and state were 
settled by the signing of the Concordat in the spring of 
1802 : the finances were brought up to a flourishing con- 
dition ; magnificent roads and bridges were built ; every- 
thing, in fact, that could enhance the greatness and glory 
of France, was thought of and carried out by this tireless 
135 



136 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

mind. It was at this time the Legion of Honour was 
established. How man}' a gallant soldier rushed to his 
death in hopes of winning a place in that legion, and how 
many a dying hero was made happy by being presented 
with its badge before he answered the last roll-call. When 
the •' Star" no longer led the Legion on to victory, Byron 
gave us the following lines. 

ON THE STAR OF " THE LEGION OF HONOUR." 

Lord Bykon. 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 

Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 

Wild meteor of immortal births, 

Why rise in heaven to set on Earth ! 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here : 
And thy light broke on human eyes. 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roU'd thy stream of blood. 
And swept down empires with its flood ; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
A rainbow of the loveliest hue 



THE STAR OF ''THE LEGION OF HONOUR." 1 37 

Of three bright colours, each divine, 
And fit for that celestial sign ; 
For Freedom's hand had blended them 
Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes ; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
But, O Thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, O Goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 

In December, i8o[, Napoleon fitted out a large expedi- 
tion and sent it to St. Domingo, with General Le Clerc, 
his brother-in-law, in command. Le Clerc succeeded in 
the task assigned him, so far, at least, as to capture Tous- 
saint L'Ouverture, the leader of the negroes, and send 
him a prisoner to France, where he was confined in prison 
at Besancon and died there in April, 1803. Toussaint 
L'Ouverture was a man far superior in intellect and states- 
manship to his fellow-countrymen. Whether he was 
honest in his dealings with Napoleon, whether his course 
in throwing off his dependence on France and setting him- 
self up as the sole head of the St. Domingo government 
was the act of a true patriot, and whether Napoleon's 
treatment of him was cruel and inhuman, are questions 
not to be decided here. It certainly cost France much 
precious blood and an immense amount of money to sub- 
jugate the blacks. General Le Clerc and twenty thousand 
French soldiers lost their lives, and in the end England 
took the fruits of the whole expedition. Napoleon at St. 
Helena said that one of the greatest follies he ever com- 
mitted was sending an army to St. Domingo ; that he did 
it against his own judgment and solely because the nation 
demanded it. 

138 



TOUSSAINT VOUVERTURE. I 39 

TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE. 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 
Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb, 

Beneath Besangon's alien sky, 
Dark Haytien ! for the time shall come — 

Yea, even now is nigh — 
When, everywhere, thy name shall be 
Redeemed from colour's infamy ; 
And men shall learn to speak of thee 
As one of earth's great spirits, born 
In servitude, and nursed in scorn, 
Casting aside the weary weight 
And fetters of its low estate, 
In that strong majesty of soul 

Which knows no colour, time, or clime, — 
Which still hath spurned the base control 

Of tyrants through all time ! 
Far other hands than mine may wreathe 
The laurel round thy brow of death, 
And speak thy praise, as one whose word 
A thousand fiery spirits stirred, — 
Who crushed his foeman as a worm, — 
Whose steps on human hearts fell firm; — 
Be mine the better task to find 
A tribute for thy lofty mind. 
Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shone 
Some milder virtues all thine own, — 
Some gleams of feeling pure and warm, 
Like sunshine on a sky of storm, — 
Proofs that the negro's heart retains 
Some nobleness amidst its chains,^ — 
That kindness to the wronged is never 

Without its excellent reward, — 
Holy to human-kind, and ever 

Acceptable to God. 



THE CONSUL, BONAPARTE. 

Is it to be wondered that Napoleon loved not the 
English people? How such an educated and enlightened 
nation could, even technically, permit the publication of 
such verses as the following is not easy to understand. 
The defence of not interfering with the liberty of the 
press, is too frivolous to be entertained. If the case had 
been reversed and it had been their good King George 
III. and his family who were being slandered and lam- 
pooned, how quickly England would have been up in 
arms. But nothing was too false or too vile, if directed 
against the " wicked usurper," Conspirators and royalist 
emigrants were harboured and allowed to plot murder, and 
to publish Munchausen lies, within the confines of English 
territory. English gold was ever ready to help any cause 
which might tend to overthrow the French Republic and 
restore the Bourbons to the throne. Even those in 
England who, at the ratification of the Peace of Amiens, 
sided with the First Consul and were disposed to recog- 
nise him as the legally chosen ruler of the French nation, 
and to live at peace with him, were converted to the 
other side and were soon found bitterly opposing him. 
140 



THE CONSUL, BONAPARTE. 141 

THE BIRTH, PARENTAGE, AND EDUCATION, LIFE, 

CHARACTER, AND BEHAVIOUR OF THE 

CONSUL, BONAPARTE, 

A TALE FOR JOHN BULL. 

( To the Tune of Good Queen Bess.) 

Anon. 

I '11 tell you such a story now as never has been told, 

John, 
By modern novel-writers, or by fabulists of old, John. 
And what is wonderful in these romancing times, John, 
You '11 find as much of truth, as of wonder in my 
rhymes, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days of Tyrant Bonaparte, 
Cursed be the memory of Tyrant Bonaparte. 

In the middle of that sea, where Nelson spread your fame, 

John, 
A little island shows its head, and Corsica 's its name, 

John, 
Where a pettifogging Lawyer and a vixen of a Wife, 

John, 
Contriv'd by hook or crook to bring an urchin into life, 

John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

Oh, curs'd forever be the night, with curses deep and 

hearty, 
When this urchin saw the light, this Devil Bonaparte ! 
Lawyers, as you know, are ever mischief brooding o'er, 

John, 
But mischief such as this, never Lawyer hatch'd before, 

John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 



142 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Young Boney soon was sent to France, and got his edu- 
cation, 

At a free school which the good old King had founded 
for the nation. 

For which to show his gratitude, he kindly did contriv^e, 
John, 

To help the rascal, Robespierre, to take away his life, 
John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

At Toulon next he chanc'd to meet a villain called 

Barras, John, 
Who seas had shed of human blood, and wish'd to shed 

still more, John. 
Young Boney was as covetous of murder to the full, John, 
And got by way of recompense, his master's cast-off 

Trull, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

So hand in hand to Paris went these Spoilers of Creation, 

And every place with murder fill'd, and endless desola- 
tion. 

By grape-shot from the cannon's mouth in one devoted 
day, John, 

All weltering in their own heart's blood, two thousand 
bodies lay, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

To Italy he now repair'd as General-in-Chief, John, 

And murders there committed such as almost pass 
belief, John. 

Where'er he set his cloven foot, the marks of blood ap- 
pear, John, 

Destruction went before his face, and curses in his 
rear, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 



THE CONSUL, BONAPARTE. 143 

And next to Egypt's coasts he led his rapine fatted train, 

John, 
And with depopulation wild he fill'd each fertile plain, 

John, 
And quick through Alexandria which he had ta'en by 

storm, John, 
Murder, rapes, and pillage stalk'd in ev'ry frightful 

form, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

Old Nile drew back his hoary head and in dread horror 

stood, John, 
But Carnage soon filled up his bed with streams of 

human blood, John, 
The crocodiles were choaked with gore, and soon it did 

appear, John, 
No monster could in thirst of blood with Bonaparte 

compare, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

But Oh ! what tongue can justly paint the horrors of that 

day, John, 
When Jaffa's sons all prisoners before his forces lay, 

John, 
His troops around the captives drawn had orders giv'n to 

fire, John. 
While spying through a glass he grinn'd to see the 

Turks expire, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

But not content Five Thousand Foes to murder in cold 

blood, John, 
His own troops next were sacrificed to his ensanguin'd 

mood, John. 



144 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Near twice three hundred soldiers who were wounded by 

his side, John, 
Were serv'd with draughts of opium, and agonised 

died, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

With conquest proud 'fore Acre next, he muster'd all his 

force, John, 
But soon was by Sir Sidney Smith compelled to change 

his course, John ; 
A handful of your soldiers there defeated all his host, 

John, 
And forced the vengeful murderer to skulk from off 

the coast, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

Then sneaking back to France again he seiz'd the sword 

of state, John, 
And slavery has now become the Frenchman's darling 

fate, John. 
And well it were if France alone composed the slavish 

train, John, 
But ah ! the Dutch, Italians, Swiss, all groan beneath his 

chain, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 

And now he swears your valiant sons he '11 shortly add to 

these, John, 
And make the boldest, mercy ask, upon his bended 

knees, John, 
And humbly praise his clemency, and prostrate sue for 

grace, John, 
While wife and daughters ravish'd are before his tortur'd 

face, John. 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 



THE CONSUL, BONAPARTE. 145 

But never sure could you survive such aggravated ill, 

John, 
Nor bear to see your females yield to his accursed will, 

John. 
Then quick prepare with ardent zeal to meet him on the 

Strand, John, 
And make each Frenchman's grave the spot on which 

he dares to land, John, 

Oh ! the melancholy days, etc. 



NAPOLEON'S CONFERENCE. 

The Peace of Amiens was of short duration. It was, 
at best, a mere truce, brought about in order to afford a 
breathing spell to two mighty nations, tired and worn out 
by long years of continued warfare. England never in- 
tended to abide by the terms of the treaty. She fretted 
and fumed with petit jealousy under the knowledge of 
the gigantic strides being made by the hated "Corsican." 
As said by an impartial English historian : " During the 
short interval of peace, every mode of irritation, recrimina- 
tion, and invective was industriously resorted to and 
tacitly encouraged by the English government, in hopes 
of bringing about a rupture." Napoleon, it would seem, 
desired peace. As he himself said, he had nothing to 
gain by a war with England. He was First Consul for 
life ; elected by a majority of over three million votes and 
he was the absolute ruler of France, with the right to 
name his successor at his death. He was ambitious to 
place France at the head of the nations of Continental 
Europe, and a war with England would surely embarrass 
him in the carrying out of his scheme. He negotiated in 
hopes of inducing England to fulfil the terms and con- 
ditions of the treaty, on her part, but ail in vain. On 
the eighteenth of May, 1803, England declared war. 

The following lines purport to be an account of the 
146 



NAPOLEON'S CONFERENCE. I47 

famous interview which took place between Napoleon and 
the English Ambassador, Lord Whitworth, shortly before 
war was declared. It was published in England at the 
time, and fairly represents the English version of the 
conference. Hazlitt stamps the story as a fable and a 
caricature, and asserts that the interview in question 
was carried out by Napoleon in a dignified and courteous 
manner. 

napoleon's conference. 

Anon. 
Napoleon, tho' a pigmy sprite, 

Was freakish as a mule ; 
Th' ambassador was twice as stout, 

And more than twice as cool. 

With this great little man to talk, 
He came from fair Whitehall ; 

But word he put to none, for why ? 
The little man talk'd all. 

" The wind is west," the Consul cried, 

And fierce as flame he grew ; 
" That cursed wind ne'er blew me good, 

And now it blows me you. 

" Tell your friend Addington, from me, 

If he 's a man of Peace, 
To clap a muzzle on the Press, 

And stop his cackling geese. 

" Kick out my rascal renegades ; 

Then let them starve and rot ; 
For }-our John Bull, if he must roar. 

Let him ; I heed him not. 



148 .4 METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

"■ And where is Malta ? By my soul, 

I hold that place so dear, 
Were I to choose 'twixt this and that, 

I 'd sooner see you here. 

" Turn to your Treaty ! — Here it is — 

To section number ten : — 
If rightly you have conn'd it not, 

Here, con it o'er again ! 

" Hell and damnation ! am I fobb'd 

Of this, and Egypt too ? 
What says your Minister to that? 

Let 's hear it ; — what say you ? " 

Now reason good there is to think, 
His Lordship here had spoke, 

If this loud little man his thread 
Of reason had not broke. 

" Egypt ! " he cried, " I could have seiz'd. 
That curst ill-omen'd shore ; 

With five and twenty thousand men, 
Though you were there with four. 

" But Egypt soon or late is mine ; 

So take a Prophet's word. 
And Nile thro' all his sev'n wide mouths, 

Shall hail me for his Lord. 

" Sebastian! scour'd the coast, 

And well I chose my man ; 
For sure, if any can ride post, 

Sebastiani can. 



NAPOLEON'S CONFERENCE. 149 

** If soon the Turkish Empire falls, 

My portion shall be this ; 
If still it totters, I '11 arrange 

With Sultan as with Swiss. 

" What, tho' a Mussulman I was. 

While interest was in view ; 
When I have made the bargain sure, 

I '11 let him call me Jew. 

" And now you know my plan, submit ! 

Secrets of State I scorn ; 
Strike, or expect me on your shores. 

As sure as you were born. 

" One hundred, though it be to one 

The odds alarm not me ; 
What were the odds that little I, 

Great Lord of France should be ! 

" Tho' army after army sink, 

Yet sink or swim I '11 do it. 
Of their pil'd bodies make a bridge, 

And then march o'er on foot. 

*' They 're not my countrymen, but slaves. 

Whose blood I freely spill ; 
They 're used to slaughter — and if you 

Don't kill them off I will." 

This said, his little fist he clench'd. 

And smote the board full sore — 
" Hum ! " cried my Lord, then strode away, 

And word spake never more! 



A NEW SONG OF OLD SAYINGS. 

Bep^ORE she published her formal declaration of war, 
England seized all the French vessels in her ports and 
captured all she could find on the high seas. Napoleon, 
in answer to this unwarranted act, forcibly detained all 
the English subjects found within the borders of France, 
and treated them as prisoners of war. Both these acts 
were without the rules of civilised international warfare, 
and they only went to prove the bitter hatred which 
existed between these two powerful nations ; which, 
united in peace, might have ruled the destinies of the 
world. France was not at all prepared for war ; her 
navy was scattered ; her army disbanded ; but such was 
the energy of the First Consul that within ten days after 
the declaration of war had been announced, he had in- 
vaded and taken possession of Hanover, one of the 
European possessions of the King of England. He then 
began to work out his scheme for the invasion of Eng- 
land, which was one of the most gigantic ever undertaken 
by him. It seems almost beyond belief that one man 
could possess the power and the ability to do what Na- 
poleon did in his preparation for crossing the channel and 
attacking England upon her own soil. His plan failed, 
simply because of its immensity. During the two years 
of the threatened invasion, England at first ridiculed the 
150 



A NEW SONG OF OLD SAYINGS. 151 

idea ; then, as the strength and vastness of the under- 
taking dawned upon her, she became alarmed. Her 
scribblers and would-be poets filled the press with their 
vile and foolish rhymes. From this mass of rubbish we 
have selected two examples, which will illustrate the 
spirit pervading England at that time. They were pub- 
lished anonymously, as such libels and slanders always 
are. 

A NEW SONG OF OLD SAYINGS. 

Anon. 

Bonaparte, the bully, resolv'd to come over, 

With flat-bottom'd wherries, from Calais to Dover ; 

No perils to him in the billows are found, 

" For if born to be hang'd he can never be drown'd.'* 

From a Corsican dunghill this fungus did spring. 
He was soon made a Captain and would be a King ; 
But the higher he rises the more he does evil, 

" For a Beggar on Horseback will ride to the Devil." 

To seize all that we have and then clap us in jail. 
To devour all our victuals and drink all our ale. 
And to grind us to dust is the Corsican's will — 

" For we know all is grist that e'er comes to his mill/ 

To stay quiet at home the First Consul can't bear. 
Or mayhap he would have other fish to fry there ; 
So as fish of that sort does not suit his desire, 
" He leaps out of the frying-pan into the fire." 

He builds barges and cock-boats, and crafts without end, 
And numbers the boats which to England he '11 send, 
But in spite of his crafts and his barges and boats, 
" He still reckons, I think, without one of his hosts." 



152 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

He rides upon France and he tramples on Spain, 
And holds Holland and Italy tight in a chain, 
These he hazards for more, though I can't understand 
" How one bird in the bush is worth two in the hand." 

He trusts that his luck will all danger expel, 

" But the pitcher is broke that goes oft to the well " ; 

And when our brave soldiers this bully surround, 

" Though he 's thought Penny-wise, he '11 look foolish 
in Pound." 

France can never forget that our fathers of yore, 
Used to pepper and baste her at sea and at shore ; 
And we '11 speedily prove to this Mock-Alexander, 

" What was sauce for the goose, will be sauce for the 
gander." 

I have heard and have read in a great many books. 
Half the Frenchmen are tailors, and t' other half cooks ; — 
We 've fine trimmings in store for the Knights of the 

Cloth, 
" And the Cooks that come here will but spoil their 

own broth." 

It is said that the French are a numerous race, 
And perhaps it is true, " for ill weeds grow a-pace " ; 
But come when they will, and as many as dare, 
" I expect they '11 arrive a day after the fair." 

To invade us more safely these warriors boast 
They will wait till a storm drives our fleet from the coast. 
That 't will be an " ill wind," will be soon understood, 
" For a wind that blows Frenchmen blows nobody 
good. " 



THE HISTORY OF HUMBUG. I 53 

They would treat Britain worse than they 've treated 

Mynheer, 
But they '11 find, " they 've got the wrong sow by the 

ear " ; 
Let them come then in swarms by this Corsican led. 
And I warrant, " we '11 hit the right nail on the head." 



THE HISTORY OF HUMBUG. 

Anon. 

In ages long past, when Humbug was a trade. 
You have heard of a thing which they called Gasconade ! 
'T was a neat way of saying just what was not true. 
And threatening grand things which we never could do. 

The word it was French, and it suited the nation. 
Who have always been prone to — enlargification : 
Drawcansir came next, in his science well skill'd, 
Who killed all he saw, and then ate all he kill'd. 

But these Braggarts of old, who once fill'd us with 

wonder. 
Must hide their small heads and be glad to knock under; 
The true Braggadocia has now got the start — 
And they call this grand hero — Don Puff, Bonaparte. 

With a heart made of stone, and with feelings of lead. 
In statue four feet, and with eyes sunk in his head ; 
All feather and sash, this immense Cockitoo, 
How he struts and how threatens, " what things he will 
do." 



154 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

He swears his French nation will soon be afloat, 
That he '11 beat our whole Fleet with his little cock-boat ; 
While the winds and the waves must all bow to his nod, 
And with reverence look up to this little French god. 

Our sailors subdued, his Flotilla comes over, 
And the Consular Guard take their breakfasts at Dover ; 
While Don Puff in his seven-leagued boots ere 't is sun- 
down. 
Rides forward and takes his headquarters in London, 

There seated — he gives us dull English a schooling, 
And relieves our poor King from the trouble of ruling, 
While his army so gay, as their custom and their trade is, 
'' Pour passer le temps'' are amusing the ladies. 

To all this fine boasting (with God our reliance) 

" The tight little Island " returns its defiance; 

And from Johnny Groat's house to Penzance is the 

pray'r — 
Let this Corsican Ruffian but come — if he dare! 



THE BARD'S INCANTATION. 

Scott treated the subject of the impending invasion in 
a far different manner. He saw nothing to ridicule or 
caricature in the man who ruled France. He saw the 
danger which threatened his own country, and, in a 
legitimate way, he endeavoured to arouse his fellow- 
countrymen to a proper sense of that danger. There 
were other English writers, like Wordsworth and Camp- 
bell, who were willing to treat Napoleon as a foeman 
worthy of British steel ; but the great majority thought 
of him only as a Corsican pirate, coming over to burn, 
ravish, and destroy. 

THE bard's incantation. 

(Written under the threat of Invasion in the Autumn of 1804.) 

Sir Walter Scott. 

The forest of Glenmore is drear, 

It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree ; 
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, 

Is whistling the forest lullaby : 
The moon looks through the drifting storm, 
But the troubled lake reflects not her form. 
For the waves roll whitening to the land, 
And dash against the shelvy strand. 
155 



156 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

There is a voice among the trees, 

That mingles with the groaning oak — 

That mingles with the stormy breeze, 

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;— 

There is a voice within the wood, 

The voice of the bard in fitful mood ; 

His song was louder than the blast. 

As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. 

" Wake ye from your sleep of death. 

Minstrels and bards of other days ! 

For the midnight wind is on the heath. 

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: 
The Spectre with his Bloody Hand, 
Is wandering through the wild woodland ; 
The owl and the raven are mute for dread, 
And the time is meet to awake the dead ! 

" Souls of the mighty, wake and say, 
To what high strain your harps were strung, 

When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way, 
And on your shores her Norsemen flung ? 

Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood, 

Skill'd to prepare the raven's food. 

All, by your harpings, doom'd to die 

On bloody Largs and Loncarty. 

" Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange 

Upon the midnight breeze sail by ; 
Nor through the pines, with whistling change 

Mimic the harp's wild harmony ! 
Mute are ye now? — Ye ne'er were mute 
When Murder with his bloody foot. 
And Rapine with his iron hand. 
Were hovering near yon mountain strand. 



THE BARD'S INCANTATION. 1 57 

" Oh, yet awake the strain to tell 

By every deed in song enroll'd, 
By every chief who fought or fell 

For Albion's weal in battle bold : — 
From Coilgach, first who roU'd his car 
Through the deep ranks of Roman war. 
To him, of veteran memory dear, 
Who victor died on Aboukir. 

" By all their swords, by all their scars. 

By all their names, a mighty spell ! 
l^y all their wounds, by all their wars, 

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! 
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain. 
More impious than the heathen Dane, 
More grasping than all-grasping Rome. 
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!" 

The wind is hush'd, and still the lake — 

Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears. 
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake 

At the dread voice of other years — 
" When targets clash'd, and bugles rung. 
And blades round warriors' heads were flung. 
The foremost of the band were we. 
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty ! " 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 

The following incident, as told by Campbell, is, in sub- 
stance, historically true, and it illustrates a phase in the 
character of Napoleon, which many times found expres- 
sion in similar acts of generosity and kindness. Often, 
when severity would have been justified and the taking 
of life, even, authorised, he listened to the inner voice, 
which pleaded for mercy, and nobly granted pardon. 
How illy he was repaid by many of those who received 
favour from his hands, is well known. The English tar 
was one of the few who appreciated the magnanimous 
trait of character which prompted the kindness shown 
him. 

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. 

Thomas Camphell. 

I love contemplating — apart 

From all his homicidal glory, 
The traits that soften to our heart 

Napoleon's glory ! 

'T was when his banners at Boulogne, 
Armed in our island every freeman. 

His navy chanced to capture one 
Poor British seaman. 

They suffered him — I know not how, 
Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; 
158 



NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR, 1 59 

And aye was bent his longing brow 
On England's home. 

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight 

Of birds to Britain half-way over, 
With envy they could reach the white 

Dear cliffs of Dover. 

A stormy midnight watch, he thought. 

Than this his sojourn would have been dearer, 

If but the storm his vessel brought 
To England nearer. 

At last, when care had banished sleep, 
He saw one morning dreaming, doting — 

An empty hogshead from the deep 
Come shoreward floating. 

He hid it in a cave and wrought 

The live-long day laborious; lurking 

Until he launched a tiny boat 
By mighty working. 

Heaven help us! 't was a thing beyond 
Description wretched, such a wherry 

Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond 
Or crossed a ferry. 

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, 

It would have made the boldest shudder ; 

Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, 
No sail— no rudder. 

From neighbouring woods he interlaced 
His sorry skiff with wattled willows, 

And thus equipped he would have passed 
The foaming billows. 



l6o .4 METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, 
His httle Argus sorely jeering ; 

Till tidings of him chanced to reach 
Napoleon's hearing. 

With folded arms Napoleon stood, 
Serene alike in peace and danger ; 

And in his wonted attitude, 
Addressed the stranger : 

" Rash man, that would'st yon channel pass 
On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned, 

Thy heart with some sweet British lass 
Must be impassioned." 

" I have no sweetheart," said the lad, 
" But — absent long from one another — 

Great was the longing that I had 
To see my mother." 

" And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, 
"Ye 've both my favour fairly won ; 

A noble mother must have bred 
So brave a son." 

He gave the tar a piece of gold, 

And, with a flag of truce, commanded 

He should be shipped to England Old, 
And safely landed. 

Our sailor oft could scantly shift 
To find a dinner, plain and hearty, 

But never changed the coin and gift 
Of Bonaparte. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN. 

While Napoleon was busy with his preparations for a 
descent upon England, a vile plot was being hatched, 
which had for its object his assassination. If the Eng- 
lish government was not knowing to this plot, it at least 
made no effort to get rid of its head and front, Georges 
Cadoudal and the rest of his gang of rufifians. It har- 
boured them in London and paid them money for past 
services ; it sent its emissaries to all parts of Europe to 
help on the cause of overthrowing the French govern- 
ment ; it encouraged the exiled Bourbons in their hope 
of recovering the throne of France ; it did everything 
else than openly participate in the conspiracy. The plot 
was discovered ; Moreau banished ; Pichegru dead by 
his own hands ; Cadoudal and a few others executed ; 
most of the guilty ones pardoned. As to the merits of 
the capture, the trial, and the execution of the Duke 
d'Enghien, historians do not agree. Perhaps it would 
have been better had Napoleon pardoned this prince of 
royal blood. But the provocation was great ; some defi- 
nite example had to be made of Napoleon's power to 
crush conspirators and assassins, and to prove that he was. 
the ruler of a mighty nation, elected by an almost unani- 
mous vote of the people. The lesson, although a severe 
and cruel one, seemed necessary under the existing cir- 



1 62 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON, 

cumstances. We can pity the fate of the Duke ; so we 
can that of Major Andr^ ; and yet Napoleon, like Wash- 
ington, had a duty to perform towards his country and he 
performed it. I do not think history quite concurs in the 
verdict expressed below. 

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE D'ENGHIEN. 

Henry Kirkk White. 

What means yon trampling? what that light 

That glimmers in the inmost wood ; 
As though beneath the felon night, 

It mark'd some deed of blood? 
Behold yon figures, dim descried 
In dark array ; they speechless glide. 
The forest moans ; the raven's scream 
Swells slowly o'er the moated -stream, 
As from the castle's topmost tower. 

It chants its boding song alone : 
A song, that at this awful hour 

Bears dismal tidings in its funeral tone ; 
Tidings, that in some grey domestic's ear 
Will on his wakeful bed strike deep mysterious fear. 

And, hark, that loud report ! 't is done ; 

There 's murder couch'd in yonder gloom ; 
'T is done, 't is done ! the prize is won, 

Another rival meets his doom. 
The tyrant smiles, — with fell delight 

He dwells upon the 

The tyrant smiles ; from terror freed, 
Exulting in the foul misdeed. 
And sternly in his secret breast 
Marks out the victims next to fall. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE D'ENGHEIN. 1 63 

His purpose fix'd ; their moments fly no more, 

He points, — the poniard knows its own ; 
Unseen it strikes, — unseen they die. 

Foul midnight only hears, and shudders at the groan. 
Hut justice yet shall lift her arm on high, 
And Bourbon's blood no more ask vengeance from the sky. 



ON A PICTURE OF NAPOLEON IN HIS ROBES. 

The Duke d'Enghien was executed on the twenty-first 
of March, 1804, and on the eighteen of May, following, 
Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor of France. The one 
event seemed to follow the other as a natural sequence. 
The people were grateful to the First Consul for what 
he had done for them ; they recognised in him the 
only person able to govern France successfully, and, 
above all, they wanted the question settled as to who 
should rule the nation, Napoleon being dead. The con- 
spiracy, just wiped out, had brought that question home 
to them in all its seriousness. Perhaps one of these plots 
might end the life of their beloved ruler before he could 
name his successor, or, perhaps, the successor named 
would not be acceptable to them. The establishment of 
the Empire with hereditary succession was the only 
solution possible. On the second of December, 1804, 
Napoleon and Josephine were crowned at Notre Dame. 
Pope Pius VII. had come from Rome to perform the 
ceremony. He did all else, except actually crown the 
Emperor and Empress. Napoleon did both these acts 
himself, by placing the crown, first upon his own head and 
then upon the head of Josephine. On the twenty-sixth of 
May, 1805, ^t Milan, Napoleon crowned himself King of 
Italy, using for that purpose the iron crown of Charle- 
magne. 

164 



ON A PICTURE OF NAPOLEON IN HIS ROBES. 165 

Thus, at the age of thirty-six, we find the hero of Tou- 
lon ; then a captain of artillery, now Emperor of France 
and King of Italy. Trul}' a wonderful advance in twelve 
years, for the son of an unknown Corsican lawyer, with 
no other aid than that of his own good sword and might)' 
intellect. He was not a " legitimate " in the sense used 
in the following verses, but the kingly robes fitted him far 
better than they did many born in the purple : 

ON A PICTURE OF NAPOLEON IN HIS ROBES. 

Anon. 

I frankly own that gilded state 

Improves an old legitimate ; 

That in "the good old times" the kings 

Dressed in their robes were pretty things ; 

For glittering crowns, and garments flowing, 

Make royal faces look more knowing ; 

And majesty 's a gorgeous word, 

Though sometimes it may seem absurd — 

For sans externals, at the best 

'T is (with due reverence) but a jest. 

Then let the diamond's lustre try 
To light the dull unmeaning eye ; 
Let crimson folds and ermine screen 
What 's wisely kept from being seen ; 
They 're right — the very fools and knaves, 
Aye, e'en the sycophants and slaves, 
(Although 't would not be quite polite) 
Would laugh and sneer at such a sight. 
Oh, leave then this caparisoned state 
To deck the idly, meanly great ; 



1 66 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Give to the Spaniard and the Moor 
To worship Ferdinand's tambour. 
To Austria's feeble lord impart 
Something in place of brains and heart. 
Let suits of rich brocade bestow 
A mantle for Italian woe. 

But it would take up too much time 
To mention all these kings in rhyme; 
I '11 just, en passant, name the Czar, 
His rude Cossacks and gemmed tiar ; 
A sharper deep, who keenly rules 
The councils of those faithless fools, 
Who sets rights, justice at defiance, 
To seal the most Holy Alliance ! 

Ill-judging painter ! would'st thou bind 

Such trappings round the splendid mind? 

Trust me, the purple ill supplies 

Napoleon's living energies. 

Not all the gems of Russia's Czar 

Could match his blazing earth-born star — 

Not all the crowns of all the kings 

That crouched beneath his eagle's wings — 

No, though they burned like Afric's sky, 

Were worth one sparkle of his eye ! 

Paint him while gazing on the might 

Of Egypt's art, before the fight — 

" Soldiers, from those high pyramids 

Ages contemplate heroes' deeds ! " 

Or paint that young and daring chief 
Who scaled the Alpine snow-clad reef, 
When springing on the giant height 
He pointed to the valleys bright, 



ON A PICTURE OF NAPOLEON IN HIS POBES. 167 

With ardent brow and flashing eye, 

Exclaiming " There lies Italy ! " 

Dashing along the dangerous ice, 

Down many a fearful precipice. 

The foremost of the impetuous brave, 

Who rushed to glory or the grave : 

Or he who, from his saddle-bow, 

Gave laws to half the world below — 

Paint him before or since his fall, 

Hero or captive — great in all. 

Let the proud charger paw the ground, 

He brooks not to be harnessed round 

With trappings, meeter for the share 

Of horses at a country fair, 

To make the gaping rabble stare. 

I 'd rather see that flashing eye. 

Like his own eagle's, soaring — high — 

Bending its piercing glances o'er 

Enraged Paesiello's score, 

See his capricious fondness teaze 

The lovely child upon his knees. 

Than view him decked in purple state, 

Like some poor weak legitimate ! 

His was that native lofty power 

That sunk not at affliction's hour ; 

He left the world a name behind. 

To prove the mastery of mind ; 

A spirit grief could not enthral. 

Great in his fortunes — greater in his fall. 

The captive exile's mighty woes 

Have stained the annals of his foes. 

He fell — like him of ancient story, 

And shook the pillars of their glory ; 

England ! when reeled thy island rock, 

All Europe felt the moral shock, 



1 68 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And doubting honour's holiest ties, 
Nations looked into nations' eyes. 
Though conquests hang upon thy breath, 
Thy banners far and wide unfurled, 
Can they restore the unsullied faith. 
That made thee conscience of the world ? " 



ON THE RUMOUR OF A WAR WITH AUSTRIA. 

The preparation for the invasion of England went on, 
and in the fall of 1805 everything was ready for the at- 
tempt. But the success or failure of Napoleon's mightiest 
scheme was never to be tested by an actual trial. Through 
the inability of Admiral Villeneuve to carry out the plan 
laid down for him, and the success of England in bringing 
about a new coalition of the European nations against 
France, it became necessary for Napoleon to withdraw his 
army from Boulogne and to abandon the idea of conquer- 
ing England on her own shores. The rumour of an ap- 
proaching war with Austria, and the result of such a strife, 
was told at the time by an obscure writer named Richaud, 
who, it is said, presented the lines to Napoleon before his 
departure for headquarters. 

ON THE RUMOUR OF A WAR WITH AUSTRIA. 

M. Richaud. 

Kings, who so often vanquish'd, vainly dare 
Menace the victor that has laid you low, — 

Look now at France, — and view your own despair 
In the majestic splendour of your foe. 

What miserable pride, ye foolish kings. 
Still your deluded reason thus misleads ! 

Provoke the storm, — the bolt with lightning wings 
Shall fall, — but fall on your devoted heads. 
169 



170 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And thou, Napoleon, if thy mighty sword 
Shall for thy people conquer new renown ; 

Go, — Europe shall attest, thy heart preferr'd 
The modest olive to the laurel crown. 

But thee, lov'd chief, to new achievements bold 
The aroused spirit of the soldier calls ; 

Speak ! — and Vienna cowering shall behold 
Our banners waving o'er her prostrate walls. 



THE GRENADIER'S ADIEU TO THE CAMP AT 
BOULOGNE. 

The new coalition between England, Austria, and Rus- 
sia, was first known to Napoleon when he heard that the 
Austrian and Russian armies were actually in the field 
advancing rapidly towards the frontiers of France. No 
declaration of war had been proclaimed. His enemies 
thought to catch the " Little Corporal " napping, but how 
fatal their mistake. No sooner was Napoleon apprised of 
what was going on than the camp at Boulogne was broken 
up and the Grand Army was sweeping like a whirlwind 
over France and towards the rear of the Austrian army. 

" During the long continuance of the French encamp- 
ment at Boulogne, the troops had formed, as it were, a 
romantic town of huts. Every hut had a garden sur- 
rounding it, kept in neat order, and stocked with vegetables 
and flowers. They had, besides, fowls, pigeons, and rab- 
bits ; and these, with a cat and a dog, generally formed 
the little household of every soldier." It was upon the 
subject of the departure of the army from Boulogne that 
a lengthy poem was written, by a combination of authors 
consisting of Barre, Rodet, and Desfontaines. The fol- 
lowing is the only translated extract from the poem we 
have been able to find. 

171 



172 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

THE grenadier's ADIEU TO THE CAMP AT BOULOGNE. 
Barre, Rodet, and Desfontaines. 

The drum is beating, we must march, 

We 're summon'd to another field, 
A field that to our conq'ring swords 

Shall soon a laurel harvest yield. 
If English folly Hght the torch 

Of war in Germany again, — 
The loss is theirs, — the gain is ours, — 

March ! march ! commence the bright campaign. 

There, only by their glorious deeds 

Our chiefs and gallant bands are known ; 
There, often have they met their foes, 

And victory was all their own : — 
There, hostile ranks, at our approach. 

Prostrate beneath our feet shall bow ; 
There, smiling conquest waits to twine 

A laurel wreath round every brow. 

Adieu, my pretty turf-built hut ! 

Adieu, my little garden too ! 
I made, I deck'd you all myself. 

And I am loth to part with you ; 
But since my arms I must resume. 

And leave your comforts all behind, 
Upon the hostile frontier soon 

My tent shall flutter in the wind. 

My pretty fowls and doves, adieu ! 

Adieu, my playful cat, to thee ! 
Who every morning round me came, 

And were my little family. 



THE GRENADIER'S ADIEU TO THE CAMP. 1 73 

But thee, my dog, I shall not leave, — 

No, thou shalt ever follow me, — 
Shalt share my toils, shalt share my fame. 

For thou art called Victory. 

But no farewell I bid to you. 

Ye praams, and boats, who, o'er the wave. 
Were doom'd to waft to England's shore 

Our hero chiefs, our soldiers brave. 
To you, good gentlemen of Thames, 

Soon, soon our visit shall be paid. 
Soon, soon your merriment be o'er,— 

'T is but a few short hours delayed. 



TRAFALGAR. 

The plans formed by Napoleon to surprise and annihi- 
late the Austrian army were, in every detail, successful. 
It was early in September, 1805, that the French army 
broke camp at Boulogne, and on the twentieth of October, 
following, General Mack surrendered with his whole army 
at Ulm. In less than two months the proud Austrian 
army, that had thought to catch the mighty Emperor off 
his guard, was itself caught in a most fatal snare and com- 
pletely destroyed. Over fifty thousand prisoners were 
taken by the victors, without even a battle of any moment 
being fought, and with a total loss to the French army of 
less than twenty-five hundred men. As an old French 
Grenadier remarked. Napoleon had invented a new art of 
war in making his soldiers win victories with their legs 
instead of with their bayonets. 

The wonderful success of Napoleon in this most re- 
markable campaign was considerably dampened by the 
overwhelming defeat of Admiral Villeneuve by Lord 
Nelson at Trafalgar. Had the naval forces of France 
in those days been commanded by the brains which led 
her armies on from victory to victory, the result at Trafal- 
gar might have been different and the descent on England 
would, in all probability, have been successfully accom- 
plished. The battle of Trafalgar was fought on the 
174 



LtiRD Nelson. 
From an engraving by J. Skelton, after A. W, Devis (1805). 

London, 1849. 



TRAFALGAR. 1/5 

twenty-first of October, 1805. The death of Nelson 
made the victory a dear one for England, but it put 
an end to any further attempt at invasion on the part of 
Napoleon. An interesting account of the death of Ville- 
neuve is given by O'Meara in what purports to be Napo- 
leon's story of how the Admiral met his end. O'Meara 
makes Napoleon say : " Villeneuve, afraid of being tried 
by court-martial for disobedience of orders, for I had 
ordered him not to sail or to engage the English, deter- 
mined to destroy himself, and accordingly took his plates 
of the heart (he had been studying Anatomy with this 
purpose in view) and compared them with his breast. Ex- 
actly on the centre of the plate, he made a mark with a 
large pin, then fixed the pin as near as he could judge in 
the same spot in his own breast, shoved it in to the head, 
penetrated his heart, and expired. When the room was 
opened he was found dead ; the pin in his breast, and 
a mark in the plate corresponding with the wound in his 
breast. He need not have done it, as he was a brave 
man, though possessed of no talent." 

TRAFALGAR. 

William C. Bennett. 

Northwest the wind was blowing 

Our good ships running free ; 
Seven leagues lay Cape Trafalgar 

Away upon our lee ; 
'T was then, as broke the morning, 

The Frenchmen we descried. 
East away, there they lay, 

That day that Nelson died. 



1/6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

That was a sight to see, boys, 

On which that morning shone ; 
We counted three-and-thirty, 

Mounseer and stately Don ; 
And plain their great three-deckers 

Amongst them we descried, — 
" Safe," we said, " for Spithead," 

That day that Nelson died. 

Then Nelson spoke to Hardy, 

Upon his face the smile, 
The very look he wore when 

We beat them at the Nile ! 
" We must have twenty, Hardy," 

'T was thus the hero cried ; 
And we had twenty, lads, 

That day that Nelson died. 

Up went his latest signal ; 

Ah, well, my boys, he knew 
That not a man among us 

But would his duty do ! 
And as the signal flew, boys. 

With shouts each crew replied ; 
How we cheered as we neared 

The foe, when Nelson died ! 

We led the weather column, 

But Collingwood, ahead, 
A mile from all, the lee line 

Right through the Frenchmen led : 
" And what would Nelson give to 

Be here with us ! " he cried. 
As he bore through their roar 

That day that Nelson died. 



TRAFALGAR. Ijy 

Well, on the Victory stood, boys. 

With every sail full spread ; 
And as we neared them slowly 

There was but little said. 
There were thoughts of home amongst us. 

And as their line we eyed. 
Here and there, perhaps, a prayer, 

That day that Nelson died. 

A gun, — the Bticeiitaiirc first 

Began with us the game ; 
Another, — then their broadsides 

From all sides through us came ; 
With men fast falling round us, 

While not a gun replied. 
With sails rent, on we went. 

That day that Nelson died. 

" Steer for their admiral's flag, boys ! " 

But where it flew none knew ; 
" Then make for that four-decker," 

Said Nelson, " men, she '11 do ! " 
So, at their Trinidada, 

To get we straightway tried. 
As we broke through their smoke, 

That day that Nelson died. 

'T was where they clustered thickest 

That through their line we broke, 
And to their Bucentaure first 

Our thundering broadside spoke. 
We shaved her ; — as our shot, boys, 

Crashed through her shattered side, 
She could feel how to keel, 

That dav that Nelson died. 



1/8 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON, 

Into the Don's four-decker 

Our larboard broadsides pour, 
Though all we well could spare her 

Went to the Biiccntatirc. 
Locked to another Frenchman, 

Our starboard fire we plied, 
Gun to gun till we won. 

That day that Nelson died. 



Redoubtable they call her, — 

A curse upon her name! 
'T was from her tops the bullet 

That killed our hero came ; 
As from the deck, with Hardy, 

The bloody fight he eyed. 
And could hear cheer on cheer, 

As they struck, that day he died. 

"They 've done for me at last, friend !' 

'T was thus they heard him say, 
*' But as I die as I would die, boys, 

Upon this glorious day ; 
I 've done my duty, Hardy," 

He cried, and still he cried, — 
As below, sad and slow. 

We bore him as he died. 

On wounded and on dying 

The cockpit's lamp shone dim ; 
But many a groan we heard, lads, 

Less for themselves than him. 
And many a one among them 

Had given, and scarcely sighed, 
A limb to save him 

Who there in 2lor\- died. 



TRAFALGAR. 179 

As slowly life ebbed from him 

His thoughts were still the same : 
" How many have we now, boys ? " 

Still faint and fainter came. 
As ship on ship struck to us 

His glazing eyes with pride, 
As it seemed, flashed and gleamed, 

As he knew he conquering died. 

We beat them — how, you know, boys, 

Yet many an eye was dim ; 
And when we talked of triumph, 

We only thought of him. 
And still, though fifty years, boys. 

Have gone, who, without pride. 
Names his name, — tells his fame, 

Who at Trafalgar died ! 



BEFORE AUSTERLITZ. 

On the thirteenth of November, 1805, Napoleon en- 
tered Vienna, and from there set out, at once, upon that 
other campaign, which was to end so gloriously for him 
at Austerlitz. With Austria and Russia in the field 
against him, with a combined force greatly outnumbering 
his own ; with Prussia ready at the news of his first de- 
feat to put two hundred thousand soldiers in his rear, 
cutting off his retreat and leaving him hundreds of leagues 
from his own capital ; with England sending her money 
and her men to aid in crushing him. Napoleon was at this 
time in a very critical position. But his enemies again 
made the fatal mistake of thinking they could catch him 
asleep, and dearly did they pay for their blunder. On the 
evening of the first of December, as he looked over the field 
of Austerlitz and took in at a glance the plan of the Rus- 
sians, he confidently said : " To-morrow before nightfall 
that army shall be my own." On the morning of the 
second of December, 1805, the " Sun of Austerlitz " arose, 
and before it went down Napoleon had proven the truth 
of his words of the night before. It was the first anni- 
versary of his coronation, and he celebrated it by one of 
the most brilliant victories of his whole military career. 
Austria went down at Ulm, and Austerlitz forced Russia 
to the wall. The coalition was destroyed and peace was 
once more in sight. 

180 



BEFORE AUSTERLITZ. l8l 

BEFORE AUSTERLITZ. 

Walter Thornbury. 

December dawn — through frosty fogs 

The sun strove hard to shine, 
A rolHng of the muster drums 

Was heard along the Hne ; 
In simple grey the Corporal 

Rode with his head bent down, 
More like a savan than the man 

Who won an Emperor's crown. 

He looked at Soult, and raised his hand, 

And stood godlike upright, 
Then all at once a silence fell 

As deep and hushed as night. 
Ten thousand faces turned at once — 

Like flowers unto the sun — 
Each gunner, with his lighted match, 

Stood silent by his gun. 

" One year to-day, my sons, you placed 

The crown upon my head." 
(We saw his coal-black eye was fired. 

His yellow cheek grew red), 
" The Tartars yonder want to steal 

That iron crown you gave. 
And will you let them ? " Tete de Dieu ! 

The shout the soldiers gave ! 

Six hundred cannon bellowed, " No ! " 

The eagles waved — and then 
There came the earthquake clamouring 

Of a hundred thousand men. 
In waves of sound the grenadiers 

Cried, " Vive I'Empereur ! " at once. 



l82 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And fires broke out along the line, 
Like Lapland's midnight suns. 

'* Soldiers, a thunderbolt must fall 

Upon the Tartar's head, 
Your Emperor will be this day 

Victorious or dead. 
My children, where the eagle flies 

Is (who dare doubt it ?) France ; 
To-day we '11 light the bivouac fire 

With Russia's broken lance." 

A grizzled giant, old Daru, 

Looked round him with a frown — 
He wore upon his broad bull chest 

The order of the " Crown." 
" To-morrow, Sire, those Russian flags 

In sheaves we hope to bring. 
And lay them at our Emperor's feet, 

A bouquet for a King." 

AUSTERLITZ. 



He stood before me stern and grey, 

A soldier of the Empire gone ; 

And while we viewed that field whose name 

Shines brightest in his country's fame, 

To speak its tale went on. 

'' My fire of life is nearly fled. 

Yet though it feebly flits. 

Still must I view with kindling eye. 

And heart with pride pulsating high, 

The field of Austerlitz. 



AUSTERLITZ. 1 83 

" Once more I see the serried lines, 
The Bergen lanciers red ; 
Their pennons floating broad and gay, 
Their horses, that impatient neigh, 
And Murat at their head. 

" And onward still from rank to rank, 
With speed of lightning flame. 
With viva wild and ringing cheer, 
And echo answer far and clear, 
Was passed the Emperor's name. 

" One moment and his proud eye roved 
Far o'er that columned throng. 
One moment, and the next he spoke 
With voice that wavered not nor broke 
Unto each phalanx long. 

" ' Soldiers, I know your courage high, 
I know it were but vain 
To praise that spirit which hath won, 
'Neath Alpine skies and Egypt's sun, 
For France such glorious name. 

" * And that the glory on our flag, 
Is glory that never flits. 
Behold,' he said, ' in yonder sky, 
'Neath which our eagles proudly fly. 
The Sun of Austerlitz ! ' 

" He spoke the truth, as ever then ; 
For e'er that sun went down. 
Proud Austria was a crushed thing ; 
Her laws as nothing, and her king 
A beggar for his crown." 



ODE TO THE COLUMN OF NAPOLEON. 

Soon after the victory at Austerlitz peace was declared 
and Napoleon was at liberty once more to return to his 
beloved Paris. There he devoted himself, with all the 
force of his mighty genius, to the creation of those mag- 
nificent works of art and of public utility which stamp his 
name on the history of France even to this day. Out of 
the cannon taken from his enemies, he constructed that 
noble monument in the Place Vendome, which told so 
vividly the exploits of the Grand Army ; to whose fidelity 
and courage it was consecrated. 

ODE TO THE COLUMN OF NAPOLEON. 

Victor Hugo. 

On the foundation that his glory laid. 
With indestructible materials made, 
Alike secure from ruin and from rust. 
Before whose might all monuments are dust, 
The eternal Column, towering far on high, 
Presents Napoleon's throne unto the sky. 

Well deemed the hero, when his sovereign hand, 
Fatigued with war, the lasting trophy planned. 
That civil discord would retire in shame 
Before the vast memorial of his name ; 
And that the nation would forget to praise 
The deeds of those who shone in ancient days. 
184 



ODE TO THE COLUMN OF NAPOLEON. 1S5 

Around the earth his veterans he had led, 
O'er smoking fields encumbered with the dead, 
And from the presence of that host so true 
Armies and kings in wild confusion flew, 
Leaving their ponderous cannon on the plain, — 
A prey to him and his victorious train ! 

Then, when the fields of France again were trod 
By him who came triumphant as a god, 
Bearing the spoils of the defeated world, — 
He came mid joyous cries and flags unfurled, 
Welcome as eagle to her infant brood 
That waits on mountain-top its daily food ! 

But he, intent on his stupendous aims. 
Straightway proceeds to where the furnace flames ; 
And while his troops, with haste and zealous glow, 
The massive ordnance in the caldron throw. 
He to the meanest artisan unfolds 
His plans to form the fashion of the moulds. 

Then to the war he led his troops once more. 
And from the foe the palm of conquest bore ; — 
He drove the opponent armies from the plain, 
And seized their dread artillery again, 
As good material for the Column high, 
Built to perpetuate his memory ! 

Such was his task ! The roaring culverin. 
The spur, the sabre, and the mortar's din, — 
These were his earliest sports till Egypt gave 
Her ancient Pyramids his smile to save ; 
Then, when the imperial crown adorned his brow, 
He raised the monument we reverence now! 



[86 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

He raised that monument ! The grandest age 
Which e'er the historian's annals might engage 
Furnished the subject, and the end of time 
Shall boast that emblem of his course sublime, 
Where Rhine and Tiber rolled in crimson flood, 
And the tall snow-capped Alps all trembling stood ! 

For even as the giant race of old 

Ossa on Pelion, mount on mountain, rolled, 

To scale high heaven's towers, so he has made 

His battles serve to help his escalade ; 

And thus to gratify his fancy wild, 

Wagram, Arcole, on Austerlitz were piled ! 

The sun unveiled himself in beauty bright, 
The eyes of all beamed gladness and delight, 
When, with unruffled visage, thou did'st come, 
Hero of France ! unto the Place Vendome, 
To mark thy Column towering from the ground, 
And the four eagles ranged the base around. 

'T was then, environed by thy warriors tried, 
As erst the Romans flocked to -^milius' side, — 
'T was then each child — each infant, on whose head 
Six summers scarcely had their radiance shed — 
Murmured applause, and clapped their little hands, 
And spied their fathers midst thy serried bands. 

Oh, when thou stood'st there, godlike, proud, and great. 

Pondering on conquest, majesty, and state. 

Who would have thought that e'er the time could be 

When a base senate should dishonour thee, 

And cavil o'er thine ashes, for Vendome 

At least is worthy to become thy tomb ! 



l.'-i ISA, QcEEN OF Prussia. 
From an engraving by Maria Anne Bourlier, after Dahling (1805). 

London, 1807. 



THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S RIDE. 

Whatever his inclination may have been, Napoleon was 
not to be permitted to rest. Pitt, his greatest enemy, it 
is true, was dead, and Fox, his friend, had come into 
power in the English Cabinet, but this state of affairs was 
not to last. Fox dying, England succeeded in forming a 
new coalition between Russia, Prussia, and herself, and 
war was again declared against France. Jena, Eylau, and 
Friedland, were the answer Napoleon gave to this chal- 
lenge, and bitterly did Prussia, especially, pay for her rash 
attempt to free herself from the toils of the French con- 
queror. But the seed was being sown which was to bring 
forth victory and revenge for Prussia and all Germany. 
Defeat and humiliation were bringing to the surface those 
brave, unflinching spirits that nothing could conquer. 
Had Frederick William been endowed with the same 
positive mind and courageous heart which Louisa, the 
Queen, possessed, the dawn of victory might have come 
sooner to that unhappy country. It took such soldiers as 
" Old Father Blucher " and such indomitable courage as 
Louisa possessed to cope with the magic power of Napo- 
leon. It is told that at the battle of Jena, when the 
Prussian army was routed, the Queen, mounted upon a 
superb charger, remained on the field attended only by 
three or four of her escort. A band of French hussars 
187 



1 88 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

seeing her, rushed forward at full galop, and with drawn 
swords dispersed the little group and pursued her all the 
way to Weimar. Had not the horse her Majesty rode 
possessed the fleetness of a stag, the fair Queen would 
certainly have been captured. 

This incident, be it history or not, gave occasion for the 
following poem : 

THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S RIDE. 

A. L. A. Smith. 

Fair Queen, away! to thy charger speak, 
A band of hussars thy capture seek ; 
Oh, haste ! escape ! they are riding this way, 
Speak, speak to thy charger without delay ; 

They 're nigh. 
Behold ! they come at a break-neck pace, 
A smile triumphant illumes each face, 
Queen of the Prussians, now for a race. 

To Weimar for safety — fly ! 

She turned, and her steed with a furious dash, 
Over the field like the lightning's flash — 

Fled. 
Away, like an arrow from steel cross-bow. 
Over hill and dale in the sun's fierce glow. 
The Queen and her enemies thundering go, 

On toward Weimar they sped. 

The royal courser is swift and brave. 
And his royal rider he tries to save. 

But, no ! 
"Vive I'Empereur ! " rings .sharp and clear; 
She turns and is startled to see them so near, 
Then softly speaks in her charger's ear. 

And away he bounds like a roe. 



THE QUEEN OF PRUSSIA'S RIDE. 1 89 

He speeds as though on the wings of the wind, 
The Queen's pursuers are left behind. 

No more 
She fears, though each trooper grasps his reins, 
Stands up in his stirrups, strikes spurs and strains ; 
For ride as they may, her steed still gains, 

And Weimar is just before. 

Safe ! the clatter now fainter grows, 
She sees in the distance her labouring foes, 
The gates of the fortress stand open wide 
To welcome the German nation's bride 

So dear. 
With gallop and dash, into Weimar she goes, 
And the gates at once on her enemies close. 
Give thanks, give thanks ! she is safe with those 
Who hail her with cheer on cheer ! 



THE GERMAN SONG. 

Jena and Auerstadt were terrible blows to the Prussian 
monarchy. In the short space of a month, Napoleon had 
all but annihilated Prussia's armies ; had captured all her 
principal cities and fortresses, and had entered Berlin in 
triumph. With a mere handful of soldiers Frederick 
retreated to the utmost confines of his kingdom, there to 
await the coming of Alexander and the Russian army. 
Everything was in the most dire confusion. The country 
was occupied and run over by the victorious French war- 
riors ; the glory of Frederick the Great and his Seven 
Years' War was as a tradition only, to this once proud 
and mighty nation, now bowed to the very dust in woeful 
humiliation. But the German poets and song writers 
began about this time to do the work, which armed sol- 
diers, led by skilled leaders, had failed to accomplish. It 
was such soul-stirring hymns as the following that united 
the Fatherland in the one common cause, which had for 
its sole end and object the overthrow of Napoleon : 

GERMAN SONG. 

1806. 

Ernest Moritz Arndt. 

O Hermann ! for thy country's fall 

No tears! Where vanquished valour bled 
190 



THE GERMAN SONG. 191 

The victor rules, and Slavery's pall 

Upon these hills and vales is spread. 
Shame burns within me, for the brave 
Lie mouldering in the freeman's grave. 

No voice ! where sturdy Luther spoke 
Fearless for men who dared be free ! 

Oh, would that Heaven's thunder woke 
My people for their liberty ! 

Must heroes fight and die in vain? — 

Ye cowards, grasp your swords again ! 

Revenge ! revenge ! a gory shroud 
To tyrants, and the slaves that yield ! 

Eternal honour calls aloud 

For courage in the battle-field. 

Who loves or fears a conquered land 

That bows beneath the despot's hand ? 

And whither flee? Where Winkelried 
And Tell and Ruyter bravely broke 

Oppression's power — their country freed — 
All — all beneath the usurper's yoke ! 

From Alpine fountains to the sea 

The patriot dead alone are free. 

My people ! in this sorrowing night, 
The clanking of your chains may be 

The sign of vengeance, and the fight 
Of former times the world may see, 

When Hermann in that storied day 

As a wild torrent cleft his way. 

No idle song, O youth ! thy boast 
In self-born virtue be as one 



192 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Who is himself a mighty host 

By whose sole arm is victory won. 
No blazoned monument so grand 
As death for the dear Fatherland. 

To die ! how welcome to the brave ! 

The tomb awakes no coward fear 
Save to the wretched, trembling slave 

Who for his country sheds no tear. 
To crown me with a fadeless wreath 
Be thine, O happy, sacred death ! 

Come, shining sword ! avenge my dead ! 

Alone canst thou remove this shame. 
Proud ornament ! with slaughter red 

Restore my native land its fame. 
By night, by day, in sun or shade, 
Be girt around me, trusty blade. 

The trumpet on the morning gale ! 

Arm ! forward to the bloody strife ! 
From loftiest mountain to the vale 

Asks dying Freedom for her life. 
Our standard raise, to glory given, 
And higher still our hearts to Heaven. 



THE BATTLE OF EYEAU. 

Hundreds of leagues from the frontiers of France ; 
with a long dreary winter before him ; with Russia and 
her countless hordes pouring down on him from the north, 
to join with Prussia, and what was left of her armies, in 
another effort to crush him ; with Austria in his rear wait- 
ing only the opportune moment to attack him, the position 
of Napoleon after the battle of Jena appeared to be truly 
a dangerous one. Not so, however, to the master-mind 
that guided and controlled the fate of the Grand Army 
and of France. Instead of retreat, onward ! was the 
word. To go into winter quarters on the Vistula and to 
push forward, still further in the spring, was the pro- 
gramme. The winter quarters were established, but they 
were to afford little rest to the weary soldiers. Alexander, 
thinking to surprise the French army while lying in can- 
tonment, put his army in motion. Napoleon, ever on the 
alert and ready to take advantage of any false movement 
of his enemy, at once broke up his encampment, boldly 
moved out and attacked those who were to surprise and 
attack him. Beaten at every point, the Russian army,, 
after a retreat of two hundred miles from the Vistula,, 
took its stand upon the plain of Eylau, where, on the 
eighth of February, 1807, was fought one of the most 
terrible battles recorded in history. The destruction o£ 
13 193 



194 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

life on both sides was something awful, and the suffering 
endured by reason of the snow and ice and the intense 
cold, was appalling. After eighteen hours struggle, 
Napoleon remained master of the field, but with no 
decisive victory to his credit. 

THE BATTLE OF EYLAU. 

Isaac McLellax. 

Fast and furious falls the snow ; 
Shrilly the bleak tempests blow, 
With a sound of wailing woe. 

O'er the soil ; 
Where the watch-fires blaze around, 
Thick the warriors strew the ground. 
Each in weary slumber bound, 

Worn with toil. 

Harken to the cannon-blast ! 
Drums are beating fierce and fast : 
Fierce and fast the trumpets cast 

Warning call. 
Form the battle's stern parade, 
Charge the musket, draw the blade ; 
Square and column stand arrayed. 

One and all. 

On they rush in stern career. 
Dragoon and swart cuirassier ; 
Hussar-lance and Cossack-spear 

Clanging meet ! 
Now the grenadier of France 
Sinks beneath the Imperial lance; 
Now the Prussian horse advance, 

Now retreat. 



THE BATTLE OF EYLAU. 1 95 

Davoust, with his line of steel, 
Storms their squadrons till they reel, 
While his ceaseless cannon-peal 

Rends the sky. 
'Gainst that crush of iron hail 
Naught may Russia's ranks avail ; 
Like the torn leaves in the gale, 

See, they f^\' ! 

Through the battle's smoky gloom 
Shineth Murat's snowy plume ; 
Fast his cohorts to their doom 

Spur the wa}-. 
Platoff, with his desert horde. 
Is upon them with the sword ; 
Deep his Tartar-spears have gored 

Their array. 

With his thousands, Augereau 
Paints Avith blood the virgin snow ; 
Low in war's red overthrow 

Sleep they on ! 
Helm and breastplate they have lost, 
Spoils that long shall be the boast 
Of the savage-bearded host 

Of the Don. 

Charge, Napoleon ! Where be those 
At Marengo quelled thy foes ; 
Crowning thee at Jena's close 

Conqueror? 
At this hour of deadly need 
Faintly thy old guardsmen bleed ; 
Vain dies cuirassier and steed, 

Drenched with gore. 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Sad the frosty moonbeam shone 
O'er the snows with corses strown, 
Where the frightful shriek and groan 

Rose amain : 
Loud the night-wind rang their knell : 
Fast the flaky horrors fell, 
Hiding in their pnowy cell 

Heaps of slain ! 

Many a year hath passed and fled 
O'er that harvest of the dead ; 
On thy rock the Chief hath sped, 

St. Helene ! 
Still the Polish peasant shows 
The round hillocks of the foes, 
Where the long grass rankly grows, 

Darkly green. 



NAPOLEON AT GOTHA. 

Directly after the battle of Eylau, Napoleon endeav- 
oured to bring about a settlement of peace with Russia 
and Prussia, and he made propositions to that effect ; but 
his efforts were unavailing. The Allies, considering his 
proposal an indication of weakness, determined on a con- 
tinuation of the war, and awaited only the event of 
spring in order to test once more the fate of battle. Na- 
poleon returned with his army to their winter quarters 
upon the Vistula, which were, in a few months, to be 
again vacated for the bloody field. On the fifth of June, 
1807, the Russians attacked the French in their canton- 
ments ; and on the fourteenth of the same month the 
battle of Friedland was fought, and another glorious vic- 
tory added to the long list already won by Napoleon. 
Friedland was followed by the famous meeting of the 
Emperors upon a raft in the middle of the river Niemen, 
and the proclamation of the Peace of Tilsit, which was 
signed in July. The Continent was again at peace. Eng- 
land alone refused to acknowledge the Conqueror, and 
went steadily on in her determination to crush him and 
his government out of existence. The Emperor Alexan- 
der of Russia, on the other hand, was completely infatu- 
ated with Napoleon ; and while yet at Tilsit the two 
entered into a secret treaty which had for its objects, 
197 



198 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Constantinople for Alexander and the rest of Europe for 
Napoleon ; or, at least, that was about the way Alexander 
understood it. Napoleon had no thought of permitting 
the key to all India to fall into the hands of Alexander; 
but it was his policy to make Alexander believe he would. 
To keep up the delusion and to further fascinate the 
Czar, the conference at Erfurt was appointed by Napoleon, 
and on the twenty-seventh of September, 1808, the two 
Emperors again met. Napoleon was the host, and to aid 
in entertaining the Czar he had for guests, kings, dukes, 
princes, and high dignitaries of the church, the army, and 
the state. All the splendour and the beauty of Germany 
flocked to the little town. It was there that Talma 
played to " a pit full of kings." It was there that Napo- 
leon and Alexander united in a letter to the King of 
England imploring peace. It was there the two Em- 
perors parted, never again to meet. Napoleon, it is true, 
did go to Moscow, and certainly received a warm wel- 
come, but his old friend Alexander was not there to 
receive him. In 1809, at Schonbrun, while holding a 
grand review in celebration of the victory at Wagram and 
of the treaty of peace signed with Austria, Napoleon 
narrowly escaped assassination at the hands of a young 
German. It must have been this incident, which Bayard 
Taylor had in mind when he wrote the following lines, as 
we are wholly unable to find mention anywhere of an 
attempt on Napoleon's life during the meeting at Erfurt. 



NAPOLEON AT GOTH A. 1 99 

NAPOLEON AT GOT HA. 

Bayard Taylor. 

We walk amid the currents of actions left undone, 
The germs of deeds that wither, before they see the sun. 
For every sentence uttered, a million more are dumb : 
Men's lives are chains of chances, and History their sum. 

Not he, the Syracusan, but each enpurpled lord 
Must eat his banquet under the hair-suspended sword ; 
And one swift breath of silence may fix or change the fate 
Of him whose force is building the fabric of a State. 

Where o'er the windy uplands the slated turrets shine, 
Duke August ruled at Gotha, in Castle Friedenstein, — 
A handsome prince and courtly, of light and shallow 

heart, 
No better than he should be, but with a taste for Art. 

The fight was fought at Jena, eclipsed was Prussia's sun, 
And by the French invaders the land was overrun ; 
But while the German people were silent in despair, 
Duke August painted pictures, and curled his yellow hair. 

Now, when at Erfurt gathered the ruling royal clan, 
Themselves the humble subjects, their lord the Corsican, 
Each bade to ball and banquet the sparer of his line : 
Duke August with the others, to Castle Friedenstein. 

Then were the larders "rummaged, the forest-stags were 

slain, 
The tuns of oldest vintage showered out their golden rain ; 
The towers were bright with banners — but all the people 

said : 
" We, slaves, must feed our master — would God that he 

were dead ! " 



200 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

They drilled the ducal guardsmen, men young and 

straight and tall, 
To form a double column, from gate to castle-wall ; 
And as there were but fifty, the first must wheel away. 
Fall in behind the others, and lengthen the array. 

*' Par bleu ! " Napoleon muttered : " Your Highness' 

guards I prize, 
So young and strong and handsome, and all of equal 

size ! " 
" You, Sire,"' replied Duke August, " may have as fine, if 

you 
Will twice or thrice repeat them, as I am forced to do !" 

Now, in the Castle household, of all the folk, was one 
Whose heart was hot within him, the Ducal Huntsman's 

son ; 
A proud and bright-eyed stripling ; scarce fifteen years 

he had 
But free of hall and chamber : Duke August loved the 

lad. 

He saw the forceful homage ; he heard the shouts that 

came 
From base throats, or unwilling, but equally of shame ; 
He thought : " Ofic man has done it — oue life would free 

the land. 
But all are slaves and cowards, and none will lift a hand ! 

" My grandsire hugged a bear to death, when broke his 

hunting-spear ; 
And has this little Frenchman a muzzle I should fear ? 
If kings are cowed, and princes, and all the land is scared. 
Perhaps a boy can show them the thing they might have 

dared ! " 



NAPOLEON AT GOTH A. 20I 

Napoleon on the morrow was coming once again, 
(And all the castle knew it) without his courtly train ; 
And, when the stairs were mounted, there was no other 

road 
But one, long, lonely passage, to where the Duke abode. 

None guessed the secret purpose the silent stripling kept. 
Deep in the night he waited, and, when his father slept, 
Took from the rack of weapons a musket old and tried. 
And cleaned the lock and barrel, and laid it by his side. 

He held it fast in slumber, he lifted it in dreams 
Of sunlit mountain - forests and stainless mountain- 
streams ; 
And in the morn he loaded — the load was bullets three : 
*' For Deutschland — for Duke August — and now the third 
for me ! " 

" What ! ever wilt be hunting ? " the stately Marshal cried ; 
" I '11 fetch a stag of twenty ! " the pale-faced boy replied, 
As, clad in forest colour, he sauntered through the court, 
And said, when none could hear him : " Now, may the 
time be short ! " 

The corridor was vacant, the windows full of sun ; 
He stole within the midmost, and primed afresh his gun ; 
Then stood, with all his senses alert in ear and eye 
To catch the lightest signal that showed the Emperor 
nigh. 

A sound of wheels ; a silence ; the muffled, sudden jar 
Of guards their arms presenting ; a footstep mounting far. 
Then nearer, briskly nearer — a footstep, and alone ! 
And at the farther portal appeared Napoleon ! 



202 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON: 

Alone, his hands behind him, his firm and massive head 
With brooded plans uplifted, he came with measured 

tread ; 
And yet, those feet had shaken the nations from their 

poise. 
And yet, that will to shake them depended on the boy's ! 

With finger on the trigger, the gun held hunter-wise. 
His rapid heart-beats sending the blood to brain and eyes^ 
The boy stood, firm and deadly — another moment's space, 
And then the Emperor saw him, and halted, face to face. 

A mouth as cut in marble, and eye that pierced and stung 
As might a god's, all-seeing, the soul of one so young ; 
A look that read his secret, that lamed his callow will. 
That inly smiled, and dared him his purpose to fulfil! 

As one a serpent trances, the boy forgetting all. 

Felt but that face, nor noted the harmless musket's fall ; 

Nor breathed, nor thought, nor trembled ;' but, pale and 

cold as stone. 
Saw pass, nor look behind him, the calm Napoleon. 

And these two kept their secret ; but from that day began 
The sense of fate and duty that made the boy a man ; 
And still he lives to tell it, — and, better, lives to say : 
"God's purposes were grander: He thrust me from his 
way ! " 



Talleyrand, 
From an engraving by Le \'ache> 

Paris, 1804, 



INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT AT 
VIMEIRO. 

It was soon after the peace of Tilsit that the first idea 
of an intervention in the affairs of Spain was suggested to 
Napoleon, and the suggestion came from that evil genius, 
Talleyrand. It is true that the secret treaty entered into 
at Fontainebleau between F"rance and Spain on the 
twenty-seventh of September, 1807, had for its only 
apparent object the wiping of Portugal, as a nation, from 
the map of the world ; but behind that Talleyrand had in 
vnew the same fate for Spain. In fulfilment of the above 
treaty the French army, in conjunction with that of Spain, 
entered Portugal, and, without resistance or bloodshed, 
Lisbon was occupied on the thirteenth of November, 
1807. The royal family had fled, and but the day before 
had sailed for Brazil. The commander of the French 
forces, General Junot, was made governor of the country, 
and ruled it with varying degrees of success until the 
twenty-first of August following, when the result of the 
battle of Vimeiro led to the Convention of Cintra and the 
evacuation of Portugal by the entire French force. 

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT AT VIMEIRO. 

Robert Southey. 

This is Vimeiro ; yonder stream, which flows 
Westward through heathery highlands to the sea, 
203 



204 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Is called Maceira, till of late a name, 

Save to the dwellers of this peaceful vale, 

Known only to the coasting mariner ; 

Now in the bloody page of war inscribed. 

When to the aid of injured Portugal 

Struggling against the intolerable yoke 

Of treacherous France, England her old ally, 

Long tried and always faithful found, went forth, 

The embattled hosts, in equal strength arrayed 

And equal discipline, encountered here. 

Junot, the mock Abrantes, led the French, 

And confident of skill so oft approved. 

And vaunting many a victory, advanced 

Against an untried foe. But when the ranks 

Met in the shock of battle, man to man. 

And bayonet to bayonet opposed, 

The flower of France, cut down along their line. 

Fell like ripe grass before the mower's scythe ; 

For the strong arm and rightful cause prevailed. 

That day delivered Lisbon from the yoke, 

And babes were taught to bless Sir Arthur's name. 



BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 

Napoleon's interference in Spanish affairs was more 
than a mistake on his part ; it was a blunder. It is diffi- 
cult to find a single good excuse for his conduct towards 
that nation. It was wholly unwarranted, no matter from 
what point of view one looks at it. The meeting at 
Bayonne between Napoleon, Charles IV., and Ferdinand 
VII. took place on the fifteenth of April, 1808; on May 
first, Ferdinand abdicated in favour of his father, and on 
May fifth, the father surrendered the crown of Spain to 
Napoleon, who, on June sixth, following, gave the same 
to his brother Joseph. From that time forward every- 
thing went wrong on the Peninsula. Had Napoleon 
stopped before taking the course he did with regard to 
Spanish affairs, and had he been content with the glory 
already won, he might have gone down into history as 
the founder of an empire second only to that of Rome in 
its extent, power, and duration. It was at this period in 
his career he reached the zenith. Combined Europe lay 
at his feet. His brothers and sisters were kings and 
queens by virtue merely of their relationship to him. He 
was absolute master of the whole situation. Why then 
endanger it all by seizing a crown which he could not 
hope to keep? Why waste so much blood and treasure 
in trying to subjugate a people so bigoted and so priest- 
205 



206 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

ridden? He never gave any satisfactory answer himself; 
but he did say at St. Helena that the impolicy of his 
conduct in relation to Spain was irrevocably decided by 
the results, and that the unfortunate war in the Peninsula 
was a real affliction and the first cause of the calamities 
which afterward befell France ; and he often expressed 
regret at having undertaken it. Joseph not being able 
to cope with the insurrections which were taking place in 
every part of his kingdom, and England having taken an 
active part in trying to restore the Bourbons to the 
throne by sending her armies to the help of Spain, Napo- 
leon resolved once more to take the field in person, and 
on the fourth of November, 1808, he entered Spain at 
the head of an army of veterans. In less than five weeks 
he defeated every Spanish army he met and compelled 
the English army, under Sir John Moore, to beat a most 
disastrous and humiliating retreat towards the sea. In 
consequence of the news received by him that Austria 
had entered into an alliance with England and was about 
to attack him in the north. Napoleon turned over the 
command of his army to Marshal Soult and started for 
Paris. Soult drove the English army to Corunna, where 
it made its final stand before embarking, and where its 
gallant leader. Sir John Moore, was killed. Had Napo- 
leon been allowed to retain personal command of the 
army, the result of the war in the Peninsula would no 
doubt have been just the opposite from what it turned 
out to be. 



BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 20/ 

BATTLE OF CORUNNA. 

William Lisle Bowlks. 

The tide of fate rolls on ! — heart-pierced and pale, 
The gallant soldier lies, nor aught avail 
The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave, 
From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save, 
Land of illustrious heroes, who, of yore. 
Drenched the same plains with the invader's gore, 
Stood frowning, in the front of death, and hurled 
Defiance to the conquerors of the world ! 
Oh, when we hear the agonising tale 
Of those who, faint and fugitive and pale. 
Saw hourly, harassed through their long retreat, 
Some worn companion sinking at their feet, 
Yet even in danger and from toil more bold, ' 
Back on their gathering foes the tide of battle rolled ; — 
While tears of pity mingled with applause. 
On the dread scene in silence let us pause. 
Yes, pause, and ask. Is not thy lawful hand 
Stretched out, O God, o'er a devoted land, 
Whose vales of beauty Nature spread in vain, 
Where Misery moaned on the uncultured plain. 
Where Bigotry went by with jealous scowl, 
Where Superstition muttered in his cowl ; 
Whilst o'er the Inquisition's dismal holds, 
Its horrid banner waved in bleeding folds ! 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 1809. 

Sir John Moore could no doubt have made terms with 
Marshal Soult, whereby he would have been permitted 
to embark his troops under very reasonable conditions ; 
but he chose to ask no favours from the French com- 
mander, and he fell, fighting gallantly for the honour of 
his country. His burial at midnight upon the ramparts 
of Corunna, from which place he had hoped to take his 
army in safety on the morrow, has been made familiar to 
all of us in the following lines: 

BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 1809. 

Rev. Charles Wolfe. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 

As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 

O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
We buried him darkly, at dead of night. 

The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we wound him ; 

But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest. 
With his martial cloak around him. 
208 



BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 209 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his 
head. 

And we far away on the billow ! 
Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone. 

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on. 

In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! 

But half of our heavy task was done. 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring, 
And we heard by th' distant and random gun, 

That the foe was sullenly firing. 
Slowly and sadly we laid him down. 

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory ! 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. 

But we left him — alone with his glory ! 



THE MAID OF SARAGOSSA. 

Saragossa was besieged twice before it was finally 
taken, and each time it was defended with the greatest 
valour by General Palafox, a brave and gallant Spanish 
soldier. In June, 1808, the French army, under com- 
mand of General Lefebvre, appeared before the walls of 
the city, and for over two months the terrible contest 
went on. The Spaniards defended their homes with the 
fierce determination of their race, and with the resolve to 
beat back the invaders or die beneath the ruins of their 
city. When called upon to surrender, Palafox sent back 
the old Spanish challenge, " War at the knife's point." 
Every man within the city became a soldier, and even 
the women enlisted in the service. The monks either 
took up arms or engaged in the manufacture of gunpow- 
der as the supply ran low. The suffering among the 
people was terrible, and the carnage caused by the bom- 
bardment and the assaults of the enemy was something 
horrible. Foot by foot the French army advanced, until 
fully one half of the city was in their possession. Hand- 
to-hand conflicts were of daily occurrence, and at one 
time it looked as if nothing could save the devoted in- 
habitants from the sword of the conquerors. A battery 
had been swept clean of its gunners by the awful fire of 
the foe ; men could not be found brave enough to fill 
210 



THE MAID OF SARAGOSSA. 211 

the empty places ; a woman sprang to the front, seized a 
hghted match from the hand of a dead artilleryman and 
poured the contents of a loaded cannon into the breasts 
of the advancing Frenchmen. Her example was conta- 
gious. The battery was served and the enemy repulsed 
at every point. This deed won for the noble woman the 
title of " The Maid of Saragossa." 

In August Lefebvre raised the siege and withdrew from 
before the city. 

THE MAID OF SARAGOSSA. 

Charles Swain. 

There were murmurs through the night ; 

As of multitudes in prayer ; 
There were tears of wild affright, 
And the wailing of despair : 
For Invasion's gory hand 
Scattered havoc o'er the land. 

The startled morn arose 

To the trumpet's fierce acclaim. 
To the ringing steel of foes, 
And the battle-bolts of flame ; 
Whilst the Gallic wolves of war 
Round were howling, and afar. 

The matron armed her son, 

And pointed to the walls : 
" See, the carnage hath begun, 
'T is thy bleeding country calls ! 
Better, son, the patriot's tomb 
Than a slave's ignoble doom." 



212 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The gray-haired father took 

His time-worn brand and shield ; 
The pale monk closed his book, 
The peasant left his field : 
And daughters, e'en a scar had grieved, 
Now deeds of dauntless heart achieved. 

Right onward dashed the foe, 

O'er the red and reeking ground, 
Till the giant gates below 

Burst with an earthquake sound ; 
And the rocking walls yawned deep, 
'Neath the cannon's shattering sweep. 

Yet ne'er with tyrant warred 

A firmer, bolder band : 
Again the gates were barred. 
Again the walls were manned ; 
Again, as with prophetic sight. 
The hallowed cross advanced the fight. 

But heavier woes befell 

The still unvanquished brave. 
Mid sounds that seemed the knell 
Of freedom's hopeless grave : 
A hurricane, a blazing shower, 
Swept — shivered rampart, rock, and tower ! 

In that appalling hour 

When Fate with Gaul combined 
To quell the freeman's power 
To crush the valiant mind, — 
When e'en the last defence had died. 
Who braved the storm ? who stemmed the tide ? 



THE MAID OF SARAGOSSA. 21 3 

No steel-girt knight of fame, 
No chief of high emprise ; 
A maiden's soul enshrined the flame 
Which lit Hope's darkening skies ; 
A maiden's valour dealt the blow, 
And stepped 'tween conquest and the foe ; 

Stood on that fatal brink. 

Defying pain and death! 
And could Napoleon's legions shrink 
Before a woman's breath ? 
Could Gaul's proud eagle, from its height, 
Stoop to a mean, disastrous flight ? 

Yes : that fair arm withstood 

The chivalry of France, 
And poured destruction, like a flood. 
On quailing helm and lance : 
Leonidas in maiden's stole, 
A woman's breast with Curtius' soul. 

Heroic heart and true! 

Thy deeds shall find a voice 
To bid usurping tyrants rue, 
And Freedom's sons rejoice: 
The loved of Time, the prized of Fame, 
Spain's noblest boast, and Gallia's shame! 



THE BENEDICTION. 

While Napoleon and Soult were driving the English 
army under Moore out of Spain, Marshal Lannes was 
engaged in the second siege of Saragossa. Palafox made 
this one of the most memorable defences recorded in 
history. One hundred thousand souls filled the city, of 
whom about forty thousand were soldiers. For two 
months the horrible butchery went on, without cessation 
and without mercy. The crude fortifications were bat- 
tered down, and the French army rushed over the walls 
only to meet a foe determined to fight while a stone re- 
mained standing in the city. Houses were demolished 
and convents blown into the air ; still the conflict went 
on, from street to street and from house to house. The 
monks, with crucifixes in their hands, were unremitting in 
their endeavours to stimulate the exertions of the citizens 
and soldiers, and they contributed much, by their example 
and by their influence, to the obstinacy of the defence. 
They preached, they absolved, they fought, as the occa- 
sion demanded. They died storming a convent which 
the French had taken, and they died defending the sacred 
altar still in their possession. But all in vain ; the French 
veterans were in the end victorious, and on the twenty- 
first of February, 1809, the intrepid Palafox surrendered. 
One third of the city was entirely demolished ; one half 
214 



THE BENEDICTION. 21^ 

of the inhabitants and two thirds of the soldiers were 
dead. Disease and starvation had killed those whom the 
bullet spared. The hatred of the French soldier towards 
the monks, and the way they treated them during the 
awful siege, is vividly told in the following lines. 

THE BENEDICTION. 

Francis Copp^e.. 

It was in eighteen hundred — yes — and nine, 

That we took Saragossa. What a day 

Of untold horrors ! I was sergeant then. 

The city carried, we laid siege to houses, 

All shut up close, and with a treacherous look, 

Raining down shots upon us from the windows, 

" 'Tis the priest's doing ! " was the word passed round ; 

So that, although since daybreak under arms, — 

Our eyes with powder smarting, and our mouths 

Bitter with kissing cartridge-ends, — piff ! paff ! 

Rattled the musketry with ready aim, 

If shovel hat and long black coat were seen 

Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street 

My company worked on. I kept an eye 

On every house-top, right and left, and saw 

From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth. 

Colouring the sky, as from the chimney-tops 

Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped, 

Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out. 

With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers 

Signed crosses on the wall ; for we were bound, 

In such a dangerous defile, not to leave 

Foes lurking in our rear. There was no drum-beat,. 

No ordered march. Our officers looked grave : 

The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows 

As do recruits when flinching. 



2l6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

All at once, 
Rounding a corner, we are hailed in French 
With cries for help. At double-quick we join 
Our hard-pressed comrades. They were grenadiers, 
A gallant company but beaten back 
Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square, 
Fronting a convent. Twenty salwart monks 
Defended it, black demons with shaved crowns, 
The cross in white embroidered on their frocks. 
Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons 
Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished 
Our men went down before them. By platoons 
Firing we swept the place ; in fact we slaughtered 
This terrible group of heroes, no more soul 
Being in us than in executioners. 
The foul deed done — deliberately done — 
And the thick smoke rolling away, we noted 
Under the huddled masses of the dead. 
Rivulets of blood run trickling down the steps ; 
While in the background solemnly the church 
Loomed up, its doors wide open. We went in. 
It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred 
The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense 
Gave out its perfume. At the upper end. 
Turned to the altar, as though unconcerned 
In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest, 
White-haired and tall of stature, to a close 
Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped 
Upon my memory is that thrilling scene. 
That, as I speak, it comes before me now — 
The convent built in old time by the Moors 
The huge brown corpses of the monks ; the sun 
Making the red blood on the pavement steam ; 
And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest ; 
And there the altar brilliant as a shrine ; 



THE BENEDICTION. 21/ 

And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating, 
Almost afraid. 

I, certcs, in those days 
Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'T is on record 
That once, by way of sacrilegious joke, 
A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe 
At a wax candle burning on the altar. 
This time, however, I was awed, — so blanched 
Was that old man ! 

" Shoot him ! " our captain cried. 
Not a soul budged. The priest beyond all doubt 
Heard ; but, as though he heard not, turning round, 
He faced us with the elevated Host, 
Having that period of the service reached 
When on the faithful benediction falls. 
His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings ; 
And as he raised the pyx, and in the air 
With it described the cross, each man of us 
Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling 
Than if before him the devout were ranged. 
But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice. 
The words came to us — 

" Vos boicdicaty 
Dens Ojniiipotcns I " 

The captain's order 
Rang out again and sharply, " Shoot him down. 
Or I shall swear ! " Then one of ours, a dastard, 
Levelled his gun and fired. Upstanding still, 
The priest changed colour, though with steadfast look 
Set upwards, and indomitably stern. 
" PaU'r et Filius ! " 

Came the words. What frenzy, 



8 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks 

Another shot, I know not ; but 't was done. 

The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge. 

Held himself up; and strenuous to complete 

His benediction, in the other raised 

The consecrated Host. For the third time 

Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness, 

With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low, 

But in the general hush distinctly heard. 

" Et Sanctus Spirit us ! " 

He said ; and ending 
His service, fell down dead. 

The golden pyx 
Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood. 
Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded. 
And choking horror in our hearts, at sight 
Of such a shameless murder and at sight 
Of such a martyr, — with a chuckling laugh, 
"Amen ! " 

Drawled out a drummer-boy. 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 

On the night of the twenty-second of January, 1809, 
Napoleon entered Paris on his return from Spain. The 
next day found him hard at work, mastering the situa- 
tion in which he found France. Another war with 
Austria was about to be fought. Four hundred thou- 
sand soldiers, confident of their ability to win, were in 
full march against him. Napoleon, with his usual hercu- 
lean energy and activity, inspired all France by his ex- 
ample. Still hoping for peace, he made the most gigantic 
preparations for war. Every possible emergency was 
provided against. But all negotiations for peace failed 
and Austria determined to force the fight. It was argued 
by that nation that the time was propitious for success ; 
that the Spanish campaign had weakened France by de- 
manding the presence there of so large a force of veter- 
ans, and that Napoleon, if he accepted the challenge to 
combat, would be compelled to take the field with an 
army of raw conscripts, easy to be beaten in the first 
battle. Never was foe more mistaken. On the ninth of 
April the advance guard of the Austrian army crossed 
the river Inn, and entered the territory of the King of 
Bavaria, one of Napoleon's allies. Napoleon at Paris 
was informed of this hostile act on the evening of the 
twelfth, and before midnight of that day he was on his 
219 



220 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

way to the seat of war as rapidly as post horses could 
carry him. On the seventeenth he was with the army. 
With not over two hundred thousand men, he was about 
to engage double that number, with all the advantages 
of position in their favour. The odds were terribly 
against him, but not for a moment did he hesitate. His 
whole army was at once set in motion, and victory after 
victory again perched upon its banners. At the battle 
of Eckmuhl the Austrians lost six thousand in dead and 
wounded ; twenty thousand prisoners were taken from 
them, together with fifteen standards and the greater 
part of their artillery. Defeated in every battle, they 
endeavoured to cover their retreat by defending Ratis- 
bon, but their effort was a vain one. Marshal Lannes 
stormed the walls of that city, and drove the foe over 
the Danube and out of the territory of Bavaria. It was 
at this place Napoleon received a slight wound in his 
foot by a spent ball. 

It is hard to trace, to any reliable source, all the varied 
incidents and traditions connected with Napoleon's life, 
but the following has more of the elements of truth in it 
than many that pass current : 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 

Robert Browning. 

You know we French stormed Ratisbon : 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming day. 



INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 221 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow, 

Oppressive with his mind. 

Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall. 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall " — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy : 

You hardly could suspect 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through). 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

" Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace. 

We 've got Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal 's in the market-place. 

And you '11 be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his 
plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
Softened itself, as sheathes 



222 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes : 

" You 're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride 
Touched to the quick, he said : 

" I 'm killed, sire ! " And, his chief beside, 
Smiling, the boy fell dead. 



Macdonald. 
From an engraving by Haller, after Gumoens. 

Place and date of publication unknown. 



WAGRAM ; OR, VICTORY IN DEATH. 

After the battle of Ratisbon, Napoleon advanced di- 
rectly on Vienna, and on May tenth, exactly one month 
after the Austrians had crossed the Inn, he appeared 
before the walls of the capital and demanded its surren- 
der. His demand being refused, a bombardment at once 
took place, which lasted until the thirteenth, when the 
city capitulated. At the commencement of the bombard- 
ment the royal family of Austria fled the city, leaving 
behind them, however, the Archduchess Marie Louise, 
who was confined to her bed by sickness. The imperial 
palace being in a direct line of the fire of one of the 
French batteries, the shot and shell falling around it threat- 
ened the life of the Archduchess. A flag of truce was 
sent to Napoleon advising him of this fact, whereupon he 
immediately ordered the battery to cease firing in that 
direction. This was Napoleon's first introduction to his 
future bride, as the sick Archduchess in less than a year 
became the wife of the man who was then storming her 
father's home. 

The battles of Aspern and Essling, fought May twenty 
first and twenty-second, were nearly fatal to the plans of 
Napoleon. The destruction of the bridge across the swol- 
len Danube cut his army in two, and left far too small 
a number across to contend successfully with the powerful 



224 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

army of the Archduke Charles ; and the death of Marshal 
Lannes was a serious loss, as it deprived the Emperor of 
one of the most fearless, reliable, and gallant supporters 
he ever had. Napoleon's genius, however, saved his army, 
which, under his personal supervision, withdrew in good 
order across the smaller arm of the river to the island of 
Lobau, where the troops at once began to prepare for the 
awful struggle soon to take place. On the night of the 
fourth of July, the French army began its passage back 
across the Danube, and on the sixth, three hundred thou- 
sand men, with one thousand pieces of artillery, fought 
the famous battle of Wagram. The result was a com- 
plete overthrow of the Austrians and another glowing 
victory for Napoleon. It was the charge of the Guard 
under Macdonald, that turned the fortune of the day and 
won for that gallant soldier his Marshal's baton. The 
Austrian empire, prostrated in the dust, only escaped dis- 
memberment by yielding the hand of an Archduchess to 
the Imperial victor. Wagram deservedly ranks among the 
decisive battles of Napoleon's career. Had it been lost to 
the French, the catastrophe of Waterloo might have been 
anticipated in 1809, and the "Star" of Napoleon have 
sunk forever on the shores of the Danube. 

WAGRAM ; OR, VICTORY IN DEATH. 



I saw a sunrise on a battle-field. — 
E'en at that early hour the gladsome beams 
Broke upon smoke-wreaths and the roar of war ; 
And o'er the dewy grass rush'd hurrying feet, — 



IVAGRAM ,■ 0A\ VICTORY IN DEATH. 225 

Austria's white uniforms sweeping to the charge, 

While France's eagles trembled in the gale. 

— Full 'gainst the Gallic left, not half array'd. 

The Austrian horse are charging home ; and foot 

And cannon follow fast, quick-belching forth 

Their thunders. Troop on troop, amidst the smoke. 

Napoleon sees them sweeping between him 

And the broad Danube ; and their loud hurrahs, 

Heard o'er the din of battle, tell how nigh 

They come upon his rear, and threat with fire 

The floating bridge that brought his troops across. 

Already stragglers flying from the charge. 

Are seen, and baggage-waggons with their startled team, 

Scampering in hot haste for the river's bank. 

But in the centre, where the Old Guard stands 
Like serried granite 'neath the enemies' fire. 
Paces " the Emperor " to and fro, in front 
Of the tall bearskin shakos, — where the shot 
And shell of Austria's cannon make huge gaps. 
Courier on courier, breathless spurring up. 
Bring him untoward tidings of the fight. 
Yet in a marble calm, as if no turn 
Of Fortune's wheel could shake his clear-eyed soul. 
He paces steadily that storm-swept spot. 
Rooting by his example to their place 
Hisvext brigades, now mustering dense and fast 
For the bold game on which his soul is set. 
" Massena ! keep the Archduke's right in check : 
Roll it but backward from the bridge apace, — 
And the day yet is ours." But still his ear 
Dreads every moment on his right to hear 
The thundering of the Archduke's brother's horse, 
The vanguard of the host on march from Rhab, 
Charging with freshness on his press'd array. 
15 



226 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

At last the moment comes, — the word is given, — 
The Emperor's self, as past his squadrons rush, 
Down-bending o'er their chargers in hot haste, 
Stabbing the air, cries out, " Give point ! give point ! 
And on sweep cuirassiers, hussars, and all, 
Spurring, and thundering their " Vive 1' Empereur ! "- 
Rank after rank bright-flashing in the sun 
Like brazen waves of battle, — charging on 
Right into smoke of th' enemies' batteries. 
— Roar upon roar, and flash upon flash, break out 
Like a volcano bursting, — a red chaos glares ; — 
And back they come, the routed horse, pell-mell, 
Gnashing their teeth in fury at defeat ; 
Rallying with dinted helms and batter'd mail, 
Again to plunge into the thick of fight. 
And still the saddles empty, and scared steeds 
Rush backwards riderless ; and with oaths and cries 
Again a broken flood of horse o'erspreads the plain. 

" Macdonald ! take the Guards, and lead them on. 
The Plateau must be won ! " And through the mass 
Of flyers straight the serried column moves, 
And the war storms anew. Right on they go, 
Like men who hold life as a bagatelle, — 
Up the brief slope, and in among the guns, 
Giving and taking death, — yet still advancing, 
Pushing their way with shot and bayonet-thrust 
Amidst the foe, who round them like a wall 
In front and on each flank hang dense ; and still 
The cannon thunder on the advancing band. — 
Oh, then there was grim conflict ! and the ranks 
Of the French column melted fast away 
In the unequal strife ; and oft their chief 
Sends word for help, and hears no help can come, — 
And that he must go on. " Go on : the day 



WAGRAM ; OR, VICTORY IN DEATH. 22/ 

Hangs on your sword ! " And on they went in sooth. 

And as the hostile fire, or want of breath, 

Or the re-forming of their shatter'd hne, 

Brings to a halt that foe-encompass'd band. 

Nigh ruin'd by success, the Imperial Voice 

Still sends them for sole word : " No aid — Go on ! " 

'T was a brave, bitter sight ! Blacken'd and scorch'd, 
Circled with fire and thunder, and the shouts 
Of a most maddening war, where each man knows 
Ruin or victory is in the scales. 
Hewing their way, each step o'er fallen foes. 
That Column marches on. On over guns 
Dismounted, and rent banners, and the wreck 
Of war's magnificence, — with blood-stain'd step, 
O'er brothers, kinsmen, comrades dropping fast. 
With clenched teeth and flashing eyes they press, 
Panting, fainting, dwindling 'neath the fire ; 
Yet back — and back — and back compelling still 
The foemen to give ground. Oh ! sure 
In that fell strife, with all its wasted wealth, 
And wasted lives, and broken hopes, and hearts 
Bleeding in far-off homes, and fever'd cries 
Of mangled myriads, — there 's enough of woe 
To glut Ambition for a thousand years ! 

I saw the sun set on that battle-field. — 
A remnant of that Column, paused at last 
On ground shot-furrowed, all begrimed and scorch'd 
Like men escaped from out a crater's mouth, 
Lean wearily on their arms. The clarion's call 
Is pealing through the air of Victory ! 
And banners wave, and the bright setting sun 
Streams o'er the armed field, from whence arose 
The exultant music of a hundred bands. 



!8 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Making war glorious. But no paean comes 
From that lone Victor-Column. They have fought 
And won, — but won at what a cost ! They have 
No heart or breath for triumph : so they stand, 
And hear but join not in the loud acclaim, — 
Sad, mute, erect. 'T was Victory in Death ! 



SCHILL. 

In consequence of the victory won at Wagram, an 
armistice was at once entered into between the French 
and Austrian armies, and on the fourteenth of October, 
1S09, a treaty of peace was concluded at Vienna, between 
Napoleon and Francis II. In the meantime, while Aus- 
tria was being crushed beneath the juggernaut of Napo- 
leon's genius, Prussia was not resting at all easy under 
the galling chains in which this same colossal power had 
bound her. The king, timid and irresolute, dared not 
make a move towards freeing his country from the yoke 
of the oppressor, but the people were in revolt against 
the hated Napoleon, and the queen and her part}' were 
ever ready to try the issue of battle once more. The 
leaven which was to work destruction to the " perfidious 
invader " was making itself felt throughout all Germany. 
Major Schill, commanding a regiment at Berlin, was 
heart and soul for the queen and his beloved fatherland, 
and, notwithstanding the fact that Prussia and France 
were at peace, he determined, wholly on his own respon- 
sibility, to make a bold attempt to arouse Prussia and to 
force his king into a declaration of war. On the twenty- 
eighth of March, 1809, he rode out of Berlin, at the head 
of his hussars, on that ride from which he never was to 
return. There could be but one result to this brave, 
229 



230 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

but foolish enterprise, and that was complete failure. 
Schill's career was a short but brilliant one. The end 
came at Stralsund, on the thirty-first of May, where he 
died, gallantly leading his men against his country's foes. 

SCHILL. 

Ernest Moritz Arndt. 

Who bursts from Berlin, with his sabre in hand ? 

Who ride at his heel, like the rush of the wave ? 
They are warriors of Prussia, the flower of the land. 

And 't is Schill leads them on, to renown — and the 



Six hundred hussars, in their pomp and their pride ! 

Their chargers are fleet, and their bosoms are bold ; 
And deep shall that sabre in vengeance be dyed. 

Ere those chargers shall halt, or those bosoms be cold. 

Then the yager in green, and the dark musqueteer, 
By thousands they rose, at the bidding of one ; 

Then galloped the hunters, no hunters of deer, 
And Prussia rejoiced that the chase was begun. 

What summoned this spirit of grandeur from gloom ? 

Was he called from the camp, was he sent from the 
throne ? 
'T was the voice of his country, it came from her tomb ; 

And it rises to honour him now that he 's gone ! 

Remember him, Dodendorff ! whirlwind and rain 

Bleach the bones of the Frenchmen that fell by his 
blade ; 

At sunset they saw its first flash on thy plain ; 

At midnight three thousand were still as thy shade. 



sen ILL, 231 

Then, Domitz ! thy ramparts were flooded with gore, 
No longer a hold for the tyrant and slave. 

But, Prussia, the day of thy glory was o'er ! 

And to Pommern he rushed, to renown and the grave. 

Fly, slaves of Napoleon, for vengeance is come! 

Now plunge in the earth, now escape on the wind ; 
With the heart of the vulture, now borrow its plume,. 

For Schill and his riders are thundering behind. 

All gallant and gay they came in at the gate, 

Where Wallenstein's banner once waved in its pride : 

A king in his spirit, a king in his state. 

Though now his dark tomb but o'ershadows the tide. 

Then dashed the hussar, like a storm, on the foe, 

And the trench and the street were a field and a grave ; 

For the sorroM^s of Prussia gave weight to the blow, 
And the slave of Napoleon was crush'd like a slave. 

O Schill — O Schill ! thou warrior of fame ! 

To the field, to the field spur thy charger again ; 
Why bury in ramparts and fosses the flame 

That should blaze upon mountain, and forest, and 
plain ! 

Stralsund was his sepulchre, city of woe ! 

No more on thy ramparts his banner shall wave ; 
The bullet Avas sent, and the warrior lies low, 

And the dastard may trample the dust of the brave \ 

He was plunged in the grave without trumpet or toll. 
No prayer of his warriors was heard on the wind ; 

No peal of the cannon, no drum's mufifled roll, 

Told the love and the sorrow that lingered behind. 



232 J METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

They cut off his head ; but his triumph is won, 

And the love of his country shall weep o'er his bier ; 

And her high-hearted sons, from the cot to the throne. 
Shall honour the dust of the chief that lies here ! 

When the fight is begun, and the Prussian hussar 
Comes down, like a cataract burst from its hill ; 

Thy glory shall flash thro' the storm like a star. 

And his watchword of vengeance be, Schill, brave 
Schill ! 



ANDREW HOFKR. 

Bv the terms of the treaty of Presbur^, in 1806, the 
T3'rol was taken from Austria and given to Bavaria, an 
ally of France. In April, 1809, at the call of the Archduke 
John of Austria, the Tyrolese arose in rebellion against 
the Bavarian Government. Andrew Hofer, the landlord 
of a village inn, became one of the heroes of that insur- 
rection, and he was finally elected commander-in-chief of 
the Tyrolean arm)-. As Schill fought in Germany for 
freedom, so did Hofer fight among the mountain-passes 
of his native country. It was liberty or death with him. 
After Austria had been beaten at Wagram and the peace 
of Vienna had been signed, and there was no possible 
chance for his making headway against the mighty power 
of the French conqueror, this patriot struggled on, de- 
serted by Austria and by his own troops. In the end he 
was captured, taken as a prisoner to Mantua, and there 
tried b\' court marshal and shot. 



ANDREW HOFKR. 



JULIt 



At Mantua in chains 

The gallant Hofer lay. 
In Mantua to death 

Led him the foe away ; 
His brothers' hearts bled for the chief, 
233 



234 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

For Germany, disgrace and grief, 
And Tyrol's mountain-land ! 

His hands behind him clasped. 
With firm and measured pace, 

Marched Andrew Hofer on ; 
He feared not death ,to face. 

Death whom from Iselberg aloft 

Into the vale he sent so oft 
In Tyrol's holy land. 

But when from dungeon-grate, 

In Mantua's stronghold, 
Their hands on high he saw 

His faithful brothers hold, 
" O God, be with you all ! " he said, 
" And with the German realm betrayed, 

And Tyrol's holy land ! " 

The drummer's hand refused 
To beat the solemn march, 
While Andrew Hofer passed 

The portal's gloomy arch ; 
In fetters shackled, yet so free, 
There on the bastion stood he, 

Brave Tyrol's gallant son. 

They bade him then kneel down, 
He answered, " I will not ! 

Here standing will I die. 
As I have stood and fought. 

As now I tread this bulwark's bank, 

Long life to my good Kaiser Frank, 
And, Tvrol, hail to thee ! " 



ANDREW HOFER. 235 

A grenadier then took 

The bandage from his hand, 
While Hofer spake a prayer, 

His last on earthly land. 
" Mark well !" he with loud voice exclaimed, 
" Now fire ! Ah ! 't was badly aimed ! 

O Tyrol, fare thee well ! '' 



TALAVCRA. 

While Napoleon was winning victor}- after victory 
against Austria and the coalition in the north, everything 
was going wrong in the Peninsula. Joseph Bonaparte was 
in no sense a soldier. The art of war was a mystery to 
him, and of its wants and necessities he knew nothing. 
So little confidence had the marshals, sent by Napoleon 
to fight his battles in Spain and Portugual, in the military 
operations of Joseph that they paid no attention to his 
orders ; on the contrary, they seemed to think that it was 
proper to act each for himself, totally disregarding the 
good of the service, and the commands of the king. 
Personal comfort and aggrandisement were sought after. 
Spite and jealousy prevailed among these veteran gen- 
erals like among a band of schoolbo}'s. There was no 
concert of action ; no willing aid lent each other. The 
whole campaign went wrong from beginning to end. 
The French soldiers fought with their accustomed brav- 
ery ; but, with quarrelsome leaders, against British valour 
and guerrilla warfare, their efforts were unavailing. The 
battle of Talavera, fought the twenty-eight of July, 1809, 
resulted in a defeat of the French army, and a most sig- 
nal victory for the Duke of Wellington, then Sir Arthur 
Wellesley. Alternate victory and defeat attended until 
the twenty-first of June, 18 13, when Napoleon's enter- 
prise in Spain met its Waterloo at the battle of Vittoria. 
236 



t a la vera. 237 

talavp:ra. 

Lord Byron. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 

Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance. 

Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 

And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar ! 
In every peal she calls, " Awake ! arise !" 

Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore. 
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore? 



Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? 

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 

Nor saved your brethern ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 

The bale-fires flash on high : from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousand cease to breathe ; 

Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 



Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 

His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun. 
With death-shot glowering in his fiery hands, 

And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ! 
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon 

Flashing afar, — ^and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 

For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. 



238 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 

(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mixed embroidery, 

Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rose them from their lair, 

And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share : 

The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 

Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies : 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 

The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 

Are met — as if at home they could not die- 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilise the field that each pretends to gain. 

There shall they rot, — Ambition's honoured fools ! 

Yes, honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools. 

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 

With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 

Or call with truth one span of earth their own. 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone ? 



LAMENT OF JOSEPHINE. 

It was in 1806, while Napoleon and Talleyrand were 
holding midnight conferences at Fontainebleau concern- 
ing the secret part of the treaty of Tilsit, that Fouch6, 
not knowing what was going on, but wrongly suspecting 
the subject of the meetings to be the divorce of Josephine, 
determined to bring about that result, and so gain credit 
to himself. He went to Josephine, and, enlarging upon 
the interests of France, which called for a successor to 
the Emperor, and the glory which would redound to her, 
he succeeded in gaining her permission to draft a letter 
from her to the President of the Senate offering to relin- 
guish her position as Empress and wife. She was to sign 
the letter the next morning; but Madame de Remusat, 
being informed of what was going on, and not wishing to 
give up her position under the Empress, determined to 
advise Napoleon of what had taken place. She waited 
that night until the Emperor had left his Cabinet to go 
to bed, which was at one o'clock. She demanded an 
audience, but, being a young and a beautiful woman and 
the hour being unseemly, was refused. She persisted in 
her request, and insisted so strongly that her business was 
of the utmost importance, that she was admitted as 
Napoleon was about to retire. She told the story in all 
its details, and Napoleon, thanking her, went at once to 
239 



240 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Josephine and told her there was no truth in the story, 
and he promised her that if reasons of state ever de- 
manded a divorce, he himself would be the first to tell 
her ; which he did, when the time came. 

Napoleon's first serious mistake was his interference in 
Spanish affairs; his second was his divorce from Joseph- 
ine. The only excuse he ever gave for it — the welfare of 
France — was a weak one, and one devoid of all merit. 
In after years, shorn of his power and wasting his life 
away as a captive in the hands of an unrelenting foe, he 
acknowledged his act of injustice and admitted he had 
made a mistake, which left for him thereafter only defeat, 
humiliation, and sorrow. The true reason for the divorce 
was Napoleon's instinct of approaching weakness. He 
felt that the mighty empire he had reared was carrying 
the utmost weight it could bear and that any more drain 
upon its resources would cause it to tumble to the ground. 
He, therefore, sought to strengthen himself by an alliance 
with some one of the great powers of Europe most to be 
feared. Russia was first asked to bolster up his cause 
with the hand of the Emperor's sister. Alexander was 
willing to grant the request made, but his mother refused, 
and she gained the day. Austria, with the smoke of Wag- 
ram still in her eyes, saw less clearly the result, and upon 
being asked, consented to furnish the bride. On the six- 
teenth of December, 1809, Josephine was banished to Mal- 
maison with the title of Empress, and on the second of 
April, 1 8 10, Marie Louise, Archduchess of Austria, took 
her place in the Tuileries. 



lament of josephine. 24 1 

Lament of Josephine. 

Mary E. Hewitt. 

The Empress ! — what 's to me the empty name ! 

This regal state — this glittering pageant-life ? 
A tinsell'd cheat ! — Am I not crown'd with shame? 

Shorn of my glorious name, Napoleon's Wife ! 
Set with a bauble here to play my part, 
And shroud with veil of pomp my breaking heart. 

'T is mockery !— thought is with the days ere thou, 
Seeking the world's love, unto mine grew cold — 

Ere yet the diadem entwined my brow, 

Tightening around my brain its serpent fold — 

When each quick life-pulse throbbed, unschool'd of art, 

When my wide empire was Napoleon's heart ! 

My spirit quails before this loneliness — 

Why did no warning thought within me rise, 

Telling thy hand would stay its fond caress 
To wreathe the victim for the sacrifice ! 

That joy, the dove so to my bosom prest, 

Would change to this keen vulture at my breast ! 

Parted forever ! — who hath dared make twain 

Those He hath join'd ? — the nation's mighty voice ! 

And thou hast bounded forward from my qhain, 
Like the freed captive, — therefore, heart ! rejoice 

Above the ashes of my hopes, that he 

Hath o'er their ruin leapt to liberty ! 
16 



NAPOLEON AND THE MOTHER. 

The birth of Napoleon's son, which took place on the 
twentieth day of March, 1811, was the occasion for the 
wildest enthusiasm in Paris and throughout France, and 
no doubt the proudest moment in the great Emperor's 
life was when he appeared before the assembled crowd of 
awaiting courtiers, holding in his arms his infant heir, 
whom he introduced as the King of Rome. What hopes 
and ambitions must have filled his breast, and how cruelly 
were father and son to be disappointed, and what a fall 
both were to experience so near in the future ! From 
the height of his ambition to the deepest depth of humilia- 
tion for the father; from the Imperial throne to the rank 
of a subject to a foreign nation for the son. 

The following incident, is doubtless, based upon the 
one related by Madame Junot in her memoirs; the only 
difference being that Napoleon's son was in reality be- 
tween two and three years of age at the time of the oc- 
currence, and that the petitioner was a young widow with 
her little boy by her side, asking a pension for the loss of 
her husband shortly before killed in Spain. The petition 
was actually placed in the King of Rome's hands and by 
him taken to the Emperor, who immediately granted the 
pension asked for, saying that it was his majesty the King 
of Rome who gave it. 

242 



NAPOLEON AND THE MOTHER. 243 

NAPOLEON AND THE ISIOTHER. 

Edward J. O'Reilly. 
A mother paced the Tuileries 

With hopes as changeful as a wave, 
And wildly prayed, on bended knees, 

Napoleon, her son to save ! 
The cruel conscript claimed his arm, 

And made the widow desolate : 
And now, she deemed her words might charm 

A king, to change his martial fate ! 

Within her trembling hand, she bore 

A missive to the " King of Rome " — 
A child to whom three days before, 

The light of earth had been unknown. 
'T was soiled : the ink, with tear-drops stored. 

Grew pallid with the grief it spoke. 
But shone more bright, when it implored 

The " King " to break the soldier's yoke ! 

The Emperor, his royal sire. 

Then read it to the cradled king. 
And knelt to hear with feigned desire. 
The words his majesty would bring ! 
Then, turning to the mother there. 

Napoleon, with joy replied : 
" The King in silence heard your prayer. 

And silence is consent, implied ! " 

Such deeds, like some bright stranger stars 

Which light a dreary winter's eve. 
Throughout Napoleon's ruthless wars, 



Their saving rays of glory 1 



eave : 



And, through his carnage, blood, and strife — 
Amidst his smiles above the slain — 

They tell us of that purer life 

Which bared his breast to pity's reign ! 



THE FLIGHT OF MASSENA, OR THE PROPHET 
MISTAKEN. 

One of Napoleon's mistakes in carrying on the war 
in the Peninsula was his persistent underrating of the 
magnitude and dif^culty of the task assigned to his lieu- 
tenants. He thought his presence in the field wholly 
unnecessary, and that he could remain in Paris and suc- 
cessfully direct a campaign, which in its every feature 
was totally different from any theretofore engaged in by 
him. When Massena, who was probably the best soldier 
he had, was sent to the front with his army of veterans 
and directed to drive Wellington into the sea, it was 
taken for granted that the campaign would be a short 
one, and that Lisbon would soon be in the Marshal's pos- 
session and the English army on its way home, completely 
routed. The result proved how easy it is to plan a cam- 
paign away from the field of operation, and how difficult 
it is to have others carry it out, especially when such 
obstacles are met with as Wellington placed in the way of 
the Prince of Essling. The " spoiled child of victory " 
was compelled to admit that fate was no longer kind to 
him, and, for the first time in his history, he ordered a re- 
treat. The English writers at once took advantage of the 
Marshal's misfortune and greatly did they exult therein. 



Massena. 
From an engraving by Fiesinger, after Bonne-maison, 

Paris, 1801. 



THE FLIGHT OF MASSENA. 245 

THE FLIGHT OF MASSENA ! OR THE PROPHET MISTAKEN. 

Anon. 
" Go," said the Tyrant swell'd with pride, 
" Drive Wellington into the tide, 
And, Prince of Essling, I decree 
That Lusitania thine shall be." 

The Prince of Essling made his bow — 
Thank'd his kind master — pledg'd his vow 
To die, or do the doughty deed — 
Then vaulted on his warrior steed. 

Full fourscore thousand veterans form 
The columns of his chosen swarm ; 
A well-train'd, desperate, hardy brood, 
Inured to scenes of death and blood — 
True dogs of war, by rapine fed, 
And to compassion's dictates dead. 

Onward they march with awful sweep 
O'er fruitful dell and rugged steep. 
Leaving behind them as they go 
A frightful waste of want and woe. 
Onward they urge their vengeful way 
To where the boast of Britain lay- 
Dreaming of nothing but success, 
Against the British van they press : 
But at Busaco's bloody height 
Their haste was check'd by British might. 
Here victory first, that long had smil'd, 
Began to frown on her spoil'd child, 
And seem'd to cry, "Adieu ! adieu ! 
Proud Massena, I 've done with you ; 
My favours henceforth I '11 bestow 
(For he deserves them) on }'our Foe ! 



246 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Nay look not, my old pet, so gruff, 
I find I 've spoil'd you long enough — 
A crown is a precarious thing — 
I never meant you for a — king — 
Take my advice, return to France — 
You '11 rue your trip if you advance." 

As on his ear her accents rung; 
His grim soul winced, to madness stung; 
Yet, maugre menace of mischance. 
Boldly resolv'd he to advance : 
For still before his gloating eyes, 
Glitter'd ambition's promis'd prize — 
" Drive Wellington into the sea. 
And Lusitania thine shall be." 

Meanwhile sagacious Wellington, 
Undazzled by his triumph won, 
Resolv'd to quit his laurell'd seat, 
And seek a more secure retreat. 
Where he his far out-numbering foes 
Might with less risk of loss oppose. 

More circumspection taught to use. 
His track the fierce French Chief pursues. 
Till on his view the grandeur shines 
Of Mafra's strong embattled lines ; 
The mighty bar, whose lofty length 
Marr'd all his hopes, mock'd all his strength. 

Here, like some gaunt wolf, baulk'd of food, 
The baffled Warrior, growling, stood, 
Manoeuv'ring, threat'ning, all in vain. 
Thro' winter's cold inclement reign. 
Fatigu'd, dishearten'd, held at bay. 
His troops disease, and famine's prey, 
At length he on a stated night, 
In doleful dumps, betook to flight, 



THE FLIGHT OF MASSENA. 247 

And left behind his high renown, 
And lost (O sad !) his promis'd crown. 

Mistaken C— BB— TT ! lack-a-day ! 
The confident has run away, 
And left another wreath of glory, 
To deck " Lord Talavera's " story ! 



INSCRIPTION FOR THE LINES OF TORRES 
VEDRAS. 

In the spring of 1810 the French army in the Penin- 
sula numbered about three hundred thousand. Napo- 
leon had thought to take command in person, but the 
divorce, his marriage with Marie Louise, and the cares 
of the empire prevented him from carrying out his pur- 
pose. He certainly made a mistake in not being with 
his army. The quarrels and jealousies existing between 
his marshals rendered his presence positively necessary, 
if success was to be obtained. England kept up a bitter 
and a most determined struggle, and Wellington in plan- 
ning and executing the Lines of Torres Vedras, laid the 
foundation for the defeat and the expulsion of French 
arms from the Peninsula. The Lines of Torres Vedras 
were a vast system of formidable defences erected be- 
tween the ocean and the Tagus in front of Lisbon. 
Wellington is said to have remarked that behind these 
fortifications he " deposited the independence of Por- 
tugal and even of Spain." It was here Massena met 
the obstacle which prevented his advance upon Lisbon, 
and which eventually compelled him to withdraw his 
entire army from Portugal. 

INSCRIPTION FOR THE LINES OF TORRES VEDRAS. 

ROBF.RT SOUTHEY. 

Through all Iberia, from the Atlantic shores 
To far Pyrene, Wellington hath left 
248 



THE LINES OF TORRES VEDRAS. 249 

His trophies ; but no monument records 

To after-time a more enduring praise 

Than this which marks his triumph here attained 

By intellect, and patience to the end 

Holding through good and ill its course assigned, 

The stamp and seal of greatness. Here the chief 

Perceived in foresight Lisbon's sure defence, 

A vantage-ground for all reverse prepared, 

Where Portugal and England might defy 

All strength of hostile nurnbers. Not for this 

Of hostile enterprise did he abate. 

Or gallant purpose : witness the proud day 

Which saw Soult's murderous host from Porto driven ; 

Bear witness, Talavera, made by him 

Famous forever ; and that later fight 

When from Busaco's solitude the birds. 

Then first affrighted in their sanctuary. 

Fled from the thunders and the fires of war. 

But when Spain's feeble counsels, in delay 

As erring as in action premature. 

Had left him in the field without support. 

And Bonaparte, having trampled down 

The strength and pride of Austria, this way turned 

His single thought and undivided power, 

Retreating hither the great general came ; 

And proud Massena, when the boastful chief 

Of plundered Lisbon dreamt, here found himself 

Stopped suddenly in his presumptuous course. 

From Ericeyra on the western sea, 

By Mafra's princely convent, and the heights 

Of Montichique, and Bucellas famed 

For generous vines, the formidable works 

Extending, rested on the guarded shores 

Of Tagus, that rich river who received 

Into his ample and rejoicing port 



250 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The harvests and the wealth of distant lands. 

Secure, insulting with the grand display 

The robber's greedy sight. Five months the foe 

Beheld these lines, made inexpugnable 

By perfect skill, and patriot feelings here 

With discipline conjoined, courageous hands, 

True spirits, and one comprehensive mind 

All overseeing and pervading all. 

Five months, tormenting still his heart with hope, 

He saw his projects frustrated ; the power 

Of the blaspheming tyrant whom he served 

Fail in the proof ; his thousands disappear, 

In silent and inglorious war consumed ; 

Till hence retreating, maddened with despite, 

Here did the self-styled Son of Victory leave. 

Never to be redeemed, that vaunted name. 



BARROSA. 

For the next two years the Peninsular war was carried 
on in Spain, Victory and defeat, alternately, came to 
the French cause, but the end brought complete triumph 
for the Allies. King Joseph and the armies which kept 
him on the throne by the power of their bayonets only, 
went back to France, having accomplished nothing. In 
all human probability had Napoleon made no King Jo- 
seph, and had he not sent his best captains and the flower 
of his veteran armies to waste their time and their blood 
in an uncalled-for and an unjustifiable warfare, the history 
of Europe would not be what it is. The battle of Barrosa 
was fought the fifth of March, 1811, and resulted in a 
most decisive defeat for Marshal Victor. 

BARROSA. 

Robert Southey. 

Though the four quarters of the world have seen 
The British valour proved triumphantly 
Upon the French, in many a field far-famed, 
Yet may the noble Island in her rolls 
Of glory write Barrosa's name. For there. 
Not by the issue of deliberate plans 
Consulted well, was the fierce contest won, 
Nor by the leader's e}'e intuitive, 
251 



252 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Nor force of either arm of war, nor art 

Of skilled artillerist, nor the discipline 

Of troops to absolute obedience trained ; 

But by the spring and impulse of the heart, 

Brought fairly to the trial, when all else 

Seemed, like'a wrestler's garment, thrown aside ; 

By individual courage and the sense 

Of honour, their old country's, and their own. 

There to be forfeited, or there upheld ; — 

This warmed the soldier's soul, and gave his hand 

The strength that carries with it victory. 

More to enhance their praise, the day was fought 

Against all circumstances ; a painful march, 

Through twenty hours of night and day prolonged, 

Forespent the British troops ; and hope delayed 

Had left their spirits palled. But when the word 

Was given to turn, and charge, and win the heights. 

The welcome order came to them like rain 

Upon a traveller in the thirsty sands. 

Rejoicing, up the ascent, and in the front 

Of danger, they with steady step advanced, 

And with the insupportable bayonet 

Drove down the foe. The vanquished Victor saw, 

And thought of Talavera, and deplored 

His eagle lost. But England saw, well pleased, 

Her old ascendency that day sustained ; 

And Scotland, shouting over all her hills. 

Among her worthies ranked another Graham. 



ALBUERA. 

The only poetry we have been able to find relating to 
the Peninsular war is that written in favour of the cause 
of the Allies, or in laudation of the noble deeds per- 
formed by the English, Spanish, and Portuguese during 
that long struggle. The friends and admirers of Na- 
poleon have not cared to eulogise his course of action 
with regard to the affairs of Spain and Portugal, and with 
some considerable good reason. On the other hand, 
English poets have taken great delight in " writing up " 
the misfortunes of the French armies in the Peninsula, 
and verses innumerable have told the story of their great 
enemy's ill luck in that quarter of the globe. At 
Albuera Marshal Soult suffered defeat at the hands of the 
combined allied forces commanded by the English Mar- 
shal Beresford. The Spanish forces fought with more 
than usual bravery, and, without doubt, the old French 
Marshal owed his defeat as much to them as he did to 
the valour of the English soldiers. 

ALBUERA. 

Capel Lofft. 

Xerxes, when the Three Hundred he beheld 
Who drove his myriads, broke his tented pride, 
And with Leonidas at Pylee died. 
With venerating awe his heart was quelled. 
253 



254 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Philip, thy stern breast 'gainst itself rebelled 

At Chasronea, as thy victor stride 

Passed by the Theban band ; who, side by side, 

Like brothers fell, nor one his comrades knelled. 

Does not the dread Napoleon think of these, 

These " sons of glory, these sure heirs of fame," 

At Albuera who have left a name, 

True Spaniards, which oblivion ne'er shall seize ? 

Glory to them eternity decrees : 

Does not his inmost heart revere their hallowed flame ? 



THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 

Salamanca only added to the misfortune of the 
French cause in Spain. WeUington there gained a signal 
victory over Marshal Marmont, who, besides defeat, re- 
ceived a serious wound which compelled him to give up 
the command of the army and retire to France. The 
Peninsula proved a field of but little glory for these great 
French captains, who, in all other quarters of the world 
had won such famous renown, Wellington, on the other 
hand, was there making for himself a record which would 
soon earn for him the title of the " Iron Duke,"" and 
finally entitle him to engage personally the " Little 
Corporal " himself. 

THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 

William Thomas Fitzgerald. 

Hark ! the deep mouth'd cannon's sound, 
Tells the list'ning world around, 
Marmont 's vanquish'd ! — -Victory 's won ! 
By our glorious "Wellington. 

Oh ! may some Bard, like Scott, relate 
His deeds in arms, so nobly great, 
That, to do justice to his name, 
The Poet ought to share his fame ! 
Yet still my bosom warmly glows, 
"When England triumphs o'er her foes ; 
255 



256 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And wishes, though in humble lays, 
To celebrate my country's praise ! 

Marmont, in numbers proud and strong. 
Drove the fierce tide of war along, 
To crush on Salamanca's plain. 
At one great blow, the hopes of Spain ! 
Or else, perhaps, he thought to shield 
The Phantom King, who dared the field ; 
And thus to save the Tyrant's race. 
He met his own, and Gaul's disgrace. 
The British Chief, with piercing eye. 
Saw when to retrograde — not fly — 
And thus deceiv'd the sanguine foe. 
Who rush'd on fate, defeat, and woe ! 
For, at the word, the Britons turn, 
And, while their bosoms nobly burn, 
Strangers to ev'ry thought of fear, 
They trample on the Gallic spear; 
Renew the deeds that Cressy saw. 
And turn at once the tide of war! 
In dreadful charge, the British van 
Bore down whole squadrons, horse and man 
From hill to hill, pursued, they run. 
Like shadows chas'd before the Sun ! 
Fetlock'd in gore, the Victors prest 
On many gallant Frenchman's breast. 
Who might have liv'd in happier times. 
Exempt from Bonaparte's crimes ; 
But now in mangled heaps they lie, 
Cursing their Tyrant ere they die, 
Who dragg'd them from their native plain 
To perish, for his cause, in Spain ! 
The Tormes, once a limpid flood. 
Red with the slaughter, swell'd with blood, 



THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA. 257 

And join'd the Douro to the Sea, 

Proclaiming England's Victory ! 

While Portugal may proudly say, 

She shar'd the honours of the day, 

When by the British Hero led, 

Her sons, with Britons, nobly bled ! 

Long time the work of Death was done, 

Nor ceas'd but with the setting Sun, 

When shelter'd by the gloom of night, 

The routed Foe urged on his flight. 

Next morn (our Victory complete), 

The Eagles saw at Wellesley's feet. 

With countless prisoners in his train, 

And thousands breathless on the plain ! 

All the proud Leaders of the Foe 

Are captives, wounded or laid low ; 

While Spanish hills and valleys ring, 

Blessing England's Prince and King, 

Who sent Their Hero to sustain, 

Th' invaded Monarchy of Spain ; 

What Meed 's for Wellington in store ? 

Whose brows were laurel-crown'd before 

In every clime ! — on every shore ! 

Our Edward 's mighty in renown, 
And Henry fam'd in story. 

Marlb'rough, who shook the Gallic crown. 
Did not surpass your glory ! 

They fill'd of Fame the brightest page ; 

You live the Hero of your age; 
The Nation's boundless Gratitude 's your own. 
With honours trebled, from the British Throne ! 
England beheld the Wave to Nelson yield, 
As He the Ocean, You command the Field ! 

'7 



THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. 

Matters in Spain were assuming a serious and an 
alarming character. Napoleon, busy with his plans for the 
invasion of Russia, had no time, money, or soldiers to spare 
in the cause of his sorely tried marshals in the Peninsula. 
The guerilla warfare adopted by the Spaniards and the 
obstinate valour displayed by the English veterans were 
more than a match for the hitherto unconquered war- 
riors of France. The struggle, it is true, was kept up in 
a gallant and heroic manner until the twenty-first of June, 
1813, when the battle of Vittoria was fought, which 
proved the Waterloo of the French cause in the Penin- 
sula. Five years of continued cruel and inhuman war- 
fare, costing rivers of blood and untold fortune, resulted 
in absolutely nothing but disaster to the great hopes of 
Napoleon. 

THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. 

William Glen. 

Sing, a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim. 
High glory gie to gallant Graham, 
Heap laurels on our marshal's fame, 

Wha conquer'd at Vittoria. 
Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain, 
An' raised her stately form again, 
Whan the British lion shook his mane 

On the mountains of Vittoria. 
258 



THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. 259 

Let blustering Suchet crousely crack, 
Let Joseph rin the coward's track, 
An' Jourdan wish his baton back 

He left upon Vittoria. 
If e'er they meet their worthy king, 
Let them dance roun' him in a ring, 
An' some Scots piper play the spring 

He blew them at Vittoria. 

Gie truth and honour to the Dane, 
Gie German's monarch heart and brain, 
But aye in sic a cause as Spain 

Gie Britain a Vittoria. 
The English rose was ne'er sae red. 
The shamrock waved whare glory led, 
An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head 

In joy upon Vittoria. 

Loud was the battle's stormy swell, 
Whare thousands fought an' mony fell. 
But the Glascow heroes bore the bell 

At the battle of Vittoria. 
The Paris maids may ban them a'. 
Their lads are maistly wede awa', 
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw 

They lie upon Vittoria. 

Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees 

The eagle standard-bearer flees, 

While the " meteor flag " floats to the breeze. 

An' wantons on Vittoria. 
Britannia's glory there was shown, 
By the undaunted Wellington, 
An' the tyrant trembled on his throne. 

Whan hearin' o' Vittoria. 



26o A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Peace to the spirits o' the brave, 
Let a' their trophies for them wave, 
An' green be our Cadogan's grave. 

Upon thy field, Vittoria ! 
There let eternal laurels bloom. 
While maidens mourn his early doom. 
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb 

Wi' roses on Vittoria. 

Ye Caledonian war-pipes, play, 
Barrosa heard your Hielan' lay, 
An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day 

A prelude to Vittoria. 
Shout to the heroes — swell ilk voice, — 
To them wha made poor Spain rejoice, 
Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys> 

Barrosa an' Vittoria, 



THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 

The Russian campaign proved a serious matter for all 
concerned in it. Southey, who delighted in using his pen 
against everything pertaining to Napoleon, made this 
campaign the subject .of a poem, called at the time hu- 
morous, but which lacks all the elements of good taste. 
*' Prolix buffoonery " are the proper terms to apply to it. 
There is, as has been well said, too much " jaunty hilar- 
ity " in it. The author might far better, and with much 
more credit to himself, have treated his theme with sobri- 
ety, as the occasion certainly called for such treatment. 
But it was the fashion in those days for English writers 
to ridicule Napoleon, and Southey was not the man to 
let such an opportunity as this go by without giving ex- 
pression to his personal feelings. The poem will amuse 
the reader, and it will, at least, afford him a chance to try 
his skill at unravelling the Russian puzzle of proper names 
embraced therein. 

THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 

Robert Southey. 

The Emperor Nap he would set off 
On a summer excursion to Moscow ; 
The fields were green, and the sky was blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 
261 



262 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Four hundred thousand men and more 
Must go with him to Moscow: 
There were Marshals by the dozen, 
And Dukes by the score ; 
Princes a few, and Kings one or two ; 
While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 

There was Junot and Augereau, 
Heigh-ho for Moscow ! 
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, 
Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! 
General Rapp, the Emperor Nap ; 
Nothing would do, 
While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

Nothing would do 
For the whole of this crew. 
But they must be marching to Moscow. 

The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big 

That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe. 

John Bull, he cries, if you '11 be wise, 

Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please 

To grant you peace, upon your knees. 

Because he is going to Moscow ! 
He 'II make all the Poles come out of their holes, 
And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians : 
For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

And he 'II certainly march to Moscow ! 

And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume 
At the thought of the March to Moscow ; 
The Russians, he said, they were undone, 



THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 263 

And the great Fee — Faw — Fum 
Would presently come, 

With a hop, step, and jump, unto London. 
For, as for his conquering Russia, 
However some persons might scoff it, 
Do it he could, and do it he would. 
And from doing it nothing would come but good,. 
And nothing could call him off it. 
Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know. 
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. 
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, 
Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon 'd ;; 
It was, through thick and thin, to its party true ;, 
Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
It served them for Law and for Gospel too. 

But the Russians stoutly they turned to 

Upon the road to Moscow. 

Nap had to fight his way all through ; 
They could fight, though they could wot par Icz vous ; 
But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

And so he got to Moscow. 

He found the place too warm for him. 
For they set fire to Moscow. 
To get there had cost him much ado. 
And then no better course he knew. 
While the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 
Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
But to march back again from Moscow. 

The Russians they stuck close to him 
All on the road from Moscow. 
There was Tormazon and Jemalon, 



264 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And all the others that end in on ; 

Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, 

And Karatschkowitch, 

And all the others that end in itch ; 

Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, 

And Schepaleff, 

And all the others that end in eff, 

Wasiltschikoff, Kostomaroff, 

And Tchoglokoff, 

And all the others that end in off ; 

Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, 

And Rieffsky, 
And all the others that end in effsky ; 
Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, 
And all the others that end in offsky ; 
And Platoff he .play'd them off, 
And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, 
And Markoff he mark'd them off, 
And Krosnoff he cross'd them off, 
And Tuchkoff he touch'd them off, 
And Boroskoff he bored them off, 
And Kutousoff he cut them off. 
And Parenzoff he pared them off, 
And Worronzoff he worried them off. 
And Doctoroff he doctor'd them off. 
And Rodionoff he flogg'd them off. 
And last of all, an Admiral came, 
A terrible man with a terrible name, 
A name which you all know by sight very well, 
But which no can speak, and no one can spell. 
They stuck close to Nap with all their might ; 
They were on the left and on the right, 
Behind and before, and by day and night ; 
He would X2X\\QX parlcz-vons than fight ; 



THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 265 

But he look'd white, and he look'd blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
When parlez-voiis no more would do. 
For they remembered Moscow. 

And then came on the frost and snow, 

All on the road from Moscow. 

The wind and the weather he found in that hour. 

Cared nothing for him nor for all his power ; 

For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod, 

Put his trust in his fortune, and not in his God, 

Worse and worse every day the elements grew. 

The fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 

Sacrebleu ! Ventrebleu ! 
What a horrible journey from Moscow ! 

What then thought the Emperor Nap 

Upon the road from Moscow ? 

Why, I ween he thought it small delight 

To fight all day, and to freeze all night ; 

And he was besides in a very great fright, 

For a whole skin he liked to be in ; 

And so, not knowing what else to do, 

When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
He stole away — I tell you true, — 
Upon the road from Moscow. 
" 'T is myself," quoth he, " I must mind most. 
So the Devil may take the hindmost." 

Too cold upon the road was he ; 
Too hot had he been at Moscow ; 
But colder and hotter he may be. 
For the grave is colder than Moscovy ; 
And a place there is to be kept in view, 



266 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Where the fire is red, and the brimstone bkie» 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 
Which he must go to, 
If the Pope say true, 
If he does not in time look about him ; 
Where his namesake ahnost 
He may have for his Host ; 
He has reckon'd too long without him ; 
If that Host get him in Purgatory, 
He won't leave him there alone with his glory 
But there he must stay for a very long day, 
For from thence there is no stealing away. 
As there was on the road to Moscow. 



VIVE L' EMPEREUR. 

Napoleon and Alexander were, no doubt, both, in a 
great measure, responsible for the rupture which took 
place in 1812 between their respective nations; but the 
great responsibility for the Russian campaign and the 
awful results which attended it, must rest, in justice, with 
England. She had resolved that the complete overthrow 
of Napoleon and his government was the only condition 
that would be accepted by her for a cessation of hostility 
against the hated usurper of the French throne. French 
commerce was driven from the seas and destroyed ; coa- 
lition after coalition was formed with European nations 
to act against the common enemy and for ten years there 
had been no truce in her efforts to destroy her great and 
only rival. Carrying on an incessant warfare in the Pen- 
insula, which demanded the presence of the flower of the 
French army to hold in check, England had sought to 
surprise and cripple France by entering into a coalition 
with Austria and inducing that nation to declare war, 
Wagram put an end to that scheme, and the marriage of 
Napoleon to the Archduchess of Austria was not just the 
result anticipated by England. Russia was the only con- 
tinental nation unconquered by the mighty legions of 
France. Alexander had sworn eternal friendship to Na- 
poleon at Tilsit ; but with the understanding that Constan- 
267 



268 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

tinople should be his. Napoleon had agreed to this, but 
with the mental reservation that he would never permit 
the key to India to be placed in the hands of any one but 
himself ; and he had further resolved that Russia must 
join in the continental blockade against English com- 
merce. Peace between England and France meant an 
end of the war with Spain and no war with Russia ; but 
England would not have it that way. With Napoleon's 
veterans and mightiest marshals engaged in the Penin- 
sula, the time was ripe for more intrigue, and the coali- 
tion between England and Russia was formed. It was, 
indeed, a serious matter for France, at that time, to en- 
gage in a war with so powerful an adversary as Russia, 
backed, as she was, by the influence and wealth of Eng- 
land. Her allies, it is true, embraced all the nations of 
Europe, Spain, Portugal, and Sweden excepted ; but the 
friendship of most of them was a forced and a strained 
one. Austria and Prussia stood ready to break their 
compacts at the first auspicious moment, and Bernadotte, 
traitor at heart to Napoleon's cause from the early days 
of the republic, had already entered into an alliance 
with Russia, and was about to turn his guns upon the 
man who had made it possible for him to wear a crown. 
It Avas within the power of England, and England alone, 
to stop the invasion of Russia, and to give the world 
universal peace ; but to give the world peace never was 
her purpose, so long as Napoleon sat at the head of the 
government of France. Russia could not, with honour, 
submit to the demands of France, and France, in justice 
to herself, could not recede, and so war was invoked. 



VJVE LEMPEREUR. 269 

Never before in his whole history had Napoleon assem- 
bled such an army as crossed the Niemen under his 
command, on the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth of June, 
1812. It seemed but the matter of a short campaign 
when terms of peace would be dictated by him from 
Russia's ancient capital, as they had been from Berlin 
and Vienna. But such was not to be the case. Things 
went wrong with him from the beginning of the campaign 
to the end. On the banks of the Niemen, before cross- 
ing into Russian territory, the Emperor was thrown from 
his horse on the sands ; which incident caused some one 
present to remark : " That is a bad omen, a Roman would 
turn back." But, instead of turning back, he rode with 
the advance guard, urging everything forward. Reach- 
ing the river Wilia, he found the bridges destroyed, and 
the stream swollen with recent rains. Anxious to get on 
he ordered a squadron of Polish cavalry to cross by swim- 
ming. They instantly plunged into the water, but before 
they could reach the middle of the stream the torrent 
broke their ranks and swept them away, almost to a man, 
before the very eyes of Napoleon, to whom many of them 
in their last struggle turned their faces, and as they sank 
from sight exclaimed in loud tones, " Vive I'Empereur." 
This historical incident is the subject of the following 
lines : 

VIVE l'empereur! 

R. Montgomery. 
By Wilia's banks the rushing river swept 
Like a careering whirlwind ; white with foam, 
And plunging on in many a gurgled roar 
Of furious rage. So fiercely flies the steed. 



2/0 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Unmanacled, that with his upshot ears, 

And limbs vein-swelHng with their wrathful glow, 

Undaunted gallops over hill and dale, 

His mane dishevelled and his eyes on fire : 

Each massy bridge was ruined, and afar 

The giddy wrecks were battling with the flood, 

Till whirl'd below. 'T was then Napoleon came 

With his embattled hosts. That wondrous man 

Whose daring spirit, with volcanic rage, 

Breathed flame and ruin on the affrighted world. 

His eye could span the Universe ! His soul 

Had fire enough to vanquish all ! In vain 

Wild Nature barred his progress with her piles 

Tiar'd by the clouds ; — in vain the rocks 

Upreared their ice-haired heads to block his path, 

Or hurled their torrents at him ! With a glance 

Fierce as the eagle's, when his piercing eye 

Gleams through the darkening air, he looked beyond 

Them all ! Nature and he were giants twin, 

And her impediments but forced the flames 

Of genius from his soul ; as thunder clouds. 

Together clashed, dart forth their lightning gleams. 

Upon the howling flood he casts a glance. 
Such as the tiger darts, ere on his prey 
He springs, to gnash it in his rav'nous fangs ; 
Then fiercely cried, — " On, on ! my valiant Poles ! " 
They answer'd not ! but with a clanging stir 
Goaded their panting battle-steeds, and plunged 
Amid the torrent's rush. Like loosened crags 
Down dashing on the sea, the warriors sank, 
Emburied in the stream ; then buoy'd again. 
And panting, cleaved their roaring track. Beneath 
Their gallant burdens, bravely pawed the steeds. 
With blowing nostrils, and red-rolling eyes, 



VIVE L'EMPEREUR. ' 2/1 

And many a furious snort : against their breasts 

The cloven waters foam'd, and flash'd behind 

Their darting hoofs ; and roar'd and raged around 

The dripping ranks, Hke a disturbed den 

Of Hons in the wood ; but vain the rush ; 

Midway the maddening torrent overwhelm'd 

The strugghng files ; like a tremendous blast 

Among autumnal leaves, it scatter'd all ! 

Rank after rank was buried in the flood, 

Upon their panting steeds ; while round their heads 

The waters yell'd, as victors o'er their foes ; 

But in that gasp — while yet their spirits hung 

'Tween life and death, as feathers in the air — 

They turned their heads, and with triumphant shrieks 

Of valour, wildly sounded, — " Vive I'Empereur ! " 

He heard their death-cries rolling on the blast, 

And as a lake just rippled into life. 

His features flutter'd with terrific throes 

Of agony; and then he gnash'd his teeth, 

And dug his nails into his palms, and heav'd 

His breast, and glanced his eyes, and groan'd for words ! 



BORODINO. 

Alexander's tactics during Napoleon's advance on 
AIoscow were a series of masterly retreats. His policy, 
which, no doubt, was the only one which could have suc- 
ceeded, was to draw the invaders as far as possible into 
his own country and away from their source of supplies. 
He did not dare risk the fate of Russia upon the fortune 
of battle, for he well knew what the result would be. 
His army destroyed, he would be at the mercy of a foe 
who would make him pay dearly for his temerity in 
opposing him in arms. He chose rather to let desolation 
and want do what his soldiers could not. In pursuance 
of this policy, the Russians in their retreat left behind 
them an utterly barren waste. Cities and villages were 
burned to the ground ; provisions for man and beast were 
removed far beyond the reach of the advancing armies ; 
bridges were destroyed and roads made as nearly impas- 
sable as human ingenuity could accomplish such a task. 
A show of battle was made at several points, but only 
enough to encourage the pursuit. Moscow was twenty- 
five hundred miles from Paris, and the nearer Napoleon 
approached to that city the nearer he was to his own 
destruction. Alexander knew this, Napoleon did not. 
Counselled by his marshals not to push on further, the 
Emperor paid no attention to their advice. A retreat. 



Alexander I. 
From an engraving by Ant. Y. Cardon, after Gerard Klichetchen. 

London, 1804. 



BORODINO. 2'73 

to him, was disgrace ; to tarry in the midst of his enemies 
meant ruin. In a steady advance, though at a cost which 
was frightful, he saw his only chance for success, his only 
hope for honour and for glory. Every battle he could 
force his foes to fight, resulted in victory ; but victory 
void of any decisive meaning. At last, Moscow was near 
at hand, and Alexander determined to make one mighty 
effort to prevent Napoleon from entering the city, which, 
once entered by the invading armies, was doomed to self- 
destruction. On the seventh of September the battle of 
Borodino was fought. Three hundred thousand men 
hurled themselves against each other with the fury of 
unchained demons. From early dawn until the close of 
day the awful struggle went on, and when in the end, 
the Russians were forced to retire from their strongly 
entrenched position, it was without disorder, fighting 
inch by inch the ground they were obliged to yield. The 
losses, on both sides, were simply horrible and the vic- 
tory won by Napoleon, if victory it was, turned out to be 
of little worth. 

BORODINO. 

From the Russian of Pushkin. 

All night beside our guns we lay, 

Nor tent nor fire was there ; 
Our arms we whetted for the fray, 

And prayed our whispered prayer. 
The tempest raged till morning red ; 
I, while a gun-car propped my head, 

Spoke in my comrade's ear : 
" Brother, hear'st thou how fierce and fast, 



274 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Like freedom's war song, yon wild blast ? " 
But wrapt in dreams of years long past, 
My comrade did not hear. 

The drums beat loud — the mist-cloud dun 

'Gan eastward lighter grow. 
And launched from unexpected gun 

Came greeting from the foe. 
Then spake our chief before our line ; 
" Moscow 's behind us, children mine ! 

Moscow we die to shield ; 
'T was thus our brethren did the deed ! " 
And one and all we vowed to bleed ; 
And well that promise did we heed 

On Borodino's field. 

I shudder at the thought— ah me ! 

Poltava, Rymnik — there 
In hope of glory battled we. 

But here in grim despair. 
We closed our ranks without a sound, 
Guns thundered, bullets whistled round ; 

I crossed myself — when nigh 
My comrade fell, all bleeding red ; 
I panted to avenge the dead. 
And from my levelled gun the lead 

With deadly aim did fly. 

" March forward, march ! " No more I know 

Of what befell that day ; 
Six times we yielded to the foe, 

Six times the foe gave way ; 
And shadowy banners waved above, 
And shadowy foes against us strove, 

And fire through smoke did rain ; 



BORODINO. 275 

Full on the guns the horsemen broke, 
The wearied arm refused its stroke, 
And rushing balls their flight did choke 
In hills of gory slain. 

There dead and living mingled lay, 

The cold night gathered round, 
And all who yet survived the fray 

In deepest gloom were drowned ; 
The roaring cannon ceased to boom. 
But guns that beat amid the gloom 

Showed where the foe withdrew. 
How welcome was the morning red ! 
" Now God be praised! " I only said, 
For shivering on a couch of dead 

I lay the long night through. 



There, in death's sleep our bravest lay, 

Beneath the fatal shade ; 
How gallant and how stanch that day ! 

Alas ! that could not aid. 
But ever in the roll of Fame, 
Above Poltava's, Rymnik's name 

Rings Borodino's praise. 
Sooner the Prophet's tongue shall lie, 
Sooner shall fade Heaven's shining eye 
Than from our Northern memory 

Shall time that field erase. 



THE JEWELLED GLOVE. 

On the fourteenth of September, 1812, the French army 
entered Moscow. Here the soldiers expected to find food 
and shelter, so long and so urgently needed. Here they 
were to obtain that rest, so well earned by the many 
weary days and sleepless nights they had passed through. 
Here awaited them the ease and comfort, oriental in com- 
parison with the hardships they had left behind. How 
different the reality from what they had fancied was to 
be their lot ! One of the most magnificent of cities, 
deserted as the barren face of a desert. Not a soul to be 
seen, save those vile and inhuman wretches left behind 
to do the will of their masters. Palace and cottage given 
up alike to the enemy and to plunder. The French sol- 
diers, bidding defiance to the flames, already bursting forth 
from all quarters of the city indulged in all kinds of ex- 
cesses. The young ofificers, more refined in their amuse- 
ments, sought to forget war and its attendant horrors in 
the pleasures of the dance, and many scenes like the one 
portrayed in the. following lines, so far as the dance is 
concerned, is said to have actually taken place, although 
" Celia " and the other joyous " daughters " of France 
were not present ; at least not at the time they are repre- 
sented to be in this poem. 

276 



THE JEWELLED GLOVE. 2// 

THE JEWELLED GLOVE. 

Anon. 

Gay tones rang on the darkness from out a palace fair, 
And echo answered echo with music sweet and rare, 
And gorgeous Hghts were shining, and Pleasure ruled 

the hour, 
And not a shadow burdened her beauty and her power ; 
And swiftly flew the moments, as in the mazy dance 
Mingled the sons and daughters of gay and lovely France. 

'T was in a lordly dwelling those joyous ones had met, 
And its blazonry was gleaming with a ducal coronet ; 
The air was rich with fragrance, and the soldier's waving 

plume 
Was bending o'er the roses on Beauty's cheek of bloom ; 
And swiftly flew the moments, as in the mazy dance 
Mingles the sons and daughters of gay and lovely France. 

They had heard Marengo's thunder— those stern and gal- 
lants braves ! 

They had stemmed the roar of battle beside Italian 
waves, 

And seen the best and bravest, in many a gory pile, 

Heaped up around the billows of the redly-rolling Nile ; 

But thoughtless, now% and happy, they mingle in the 
dance 

With the fair and 'witching daughters of gay and sunny 
France. 

The gale grew deep and mournful, as the prophet tones 

of old, 
And then arose in fury, with murmurs loud and cold ; 
But they heeded not its accents, and the wild, foreboding 

sound 
Was blent with song and laughter, as the goblet passed 

around ; 



2/8 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And louder swelled the music, as in the mazy dance 
Mingled the sons and daughters of gay and gallant 
France. 

But hark ! — a shrill reveille breaks on the midnight air — 

A thrilling cry of terror disturbs the Wassail there ; 

It shook the warrior's plumage, and chased the happy 

glow 
From off his regal forehead and woman's gentle brow ; 
With sad and troubled spirits, they rested from the 

dance — 
The joyous sons and daughters of gay and gallant France. 

" Fire ! " loud, and clear, and awful, it reached that breath- 
less crowd ; 
" Fire ! fire ! " ten thousand voices replied like thunder 

loud ; 
" Fire ! fire ! " and there were echoed wild shrieks of agony, 
As flames from blazing Moscow lit up the lurid sky ! 
All pale, but calm and silent, they rested from the dance — 
The noble sons and daughters of gay and gallant France. 

O'er tower and dome and palace those glowing demons 

twine, 
In splendour stern and matchless and terribly sublime ; 
They shot toward angry heaven, they lit the snowy sod — 
They seemed like the avengers of some offended god ! 
As gates of Death they gathered around the hosts of 

France, 
And glared upon the figures that had left the mazy dance. 

Carnot looked out on Moscow, and watched her sullen foe, 
He heard the bursting bomb-shells, the piercing cries of 

woe, 
And the air grew hot and heavy — the sky was red as 

blood — 



THE JEWELLED GLOVE. 279 

The roar of fire resounded like a stormy ocean-flood ; 
He turned again to Celia — the fairest in the dance — 
A bright and happy blossom from a viny glen of France. 

She caught the dauntless spirit within his eyes of night, 
And smiled upon her soldier with a glance of love and 

light. 
And proudly gazed upon him, as his wavy ebon hair 
Was tossed by deathful breezes from off his forehead 

fair. 
She leaned upon his bosom, as they rested from the 

dance — 
The starred and noble bosom that beat for her and 

France. 

Carnot looked on the dancers and the lady of his love, 
And toward the burning city — then waved his jewelled 

glove, 
And cried : " Though the fire poureth like the sweeping 

autumn rain. 
Come, join with me, my gallants, and defiance to the 

flames ! 
Lead forth the gentle daughters of our beloved France, 
To brighten with their beauty the mazes of the dance. 

" The Russian dogs have folded in ruin Moscow's walls ; 
But Gallia's warrior fears not, and these are noble halls. 
And though the night is cheerless, the tempest wild and 

high, 
And spectre-hosts are sweeping across the winter sky — 
What care we ? Fill the goblet, ye knights of sword 

and lance. 
Drink to our Eagle banner, Napoleon, and our France ! 

" The hero now is watching, in Kremlin's lofty tow'r 
The progress of this conflict — the fiery demon's pow'r- 



28o A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Then hasten, comrades, hasten, one dance with lady fair, 
And then to prancing charges, and we will seek him 

there ; 
Come, smile again, fair daughters of gay and queenly 



F 



ranee 



We wait for you the signal to join the graceful dance." 

Again the brave young Carnot upraised his jewelled hand, 
And every fear departed from out the thoughtless band ; 
Pale cheeks regained their crimson, the music swelled 

again, 
While onward crept the legions of misery and flame ! 
Bright- — nearer and nearer came they, and glared upon 

the dance. 
And mocked the merry children of gay and sunny France. 

They hissed in bloody circles, then angrily arose 

On works of peerless splendour, and gleamed o'er Northern 

snows ; 
They leaped to meet the whirlwind in the wildly flying 

cloud. 
They spread for Gallia's Eagle a gory funeral shroud. 
Woe to the haughty Carnot, and those among the dance ! 
Woe to the star of glory and haughty plume of France ! 

The crash of falling columns arose o'er every sound : 

*' Fly ! fly for life ! " cried Carnot — " the flames are all 

around ; 
Look to these helpless maidens ! O Celia, Celia, fly ! 
Oh, if I can but save her, how joyous will I die ! " 
Woe, woe to youthful Carnot and those who joined the 

dance ! 
Woe to the star of glory and eagle-plume of France ! 

He pressed his Celia to him, and op'd the massive door^ 
The sea of fire before them was red as human gore ! 



THE JEWELLED GLOVE. 28 1 

He gazed upon the lady, and then in wild despair, 
Sprang to the lurid lattice — a pall of flame was there ! 
On every wall around them the fiends of ruin dance. 
Woe to the sons and daughters of gay and happy F'rance ! 

One instant, pale with terror, they gazed upon the scene ; 
Then quickly came a cry : " The fire has reached the 

magazine ! 
Great God ! it is beneath us ! " All passionless and calm, 
And stupefied to silence, they heard the wild alarm ; 
And Carnot whispered slowly, and with a mournful 

glance: 
" We stray no more, dear Celia, among the vales of 

France ! " 

Gemmed ringlets hid the orders upon his heaving breast, 
While round the trembling lady one gallant arm he 

pressed ; 
His eyes of starry midnight were beaming still with love. 
And in his hand uplifted he held the jewelled glove ! 
The firelight floated brightly on the victims of the dance. 
And mocked the helpless children of gay and queenly 

France. 

*' God bless our far-off dear ones, whom we shall see no 

more, 
And safely give to Gallia, her guardian emperor ! 
We meet our death together — " A shriek — a startling 

boom — 
And sternly closed around them the iron bands of Doom ! 
Gone was the ducal palace, and all within its halls, 
While woe and ruin brooded o'er fated Moscow's walls ! 



THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 

By way of prefix, the author of the following lines has 
given us an historical account of the transactions which 
led up to and are so vividly depicted in his poem. His 
narrative is so brief and accurate that we take pleasure 
in adopting his words. He says : " The action of the 
following poem commences at midnight on the 15th of 
September, A.D. 1812. The city had been fired on the 
night of the 14th ; but owing to the stillness of the air, 
and the exertions of Marshal Mortier, who had been ap- 
pointed governor of the city by Napoleon with the com- 
mand of the Young Guard, it had been extinguished. On 
the night of the 15th, however, the wind was so strong 
that it overcame the exertions of the wearied troops. 
According to the best authorities, the city burned from 
the 15th to the 20th constantly. On the third day the 
firebrands, borne by a violent northwest wind, set fire to 
one of the towers or pavilions of the Kremlin adjoining 
the arsenal where Lariboisiere, commander-in-chief of 
the artillery, had caused the ammunition of the artillery 
of the Guard to be deposited. Napoleon had taken up 
his quarters in the Kremlin, and did not leave it till the 
night of the i6th, after it was surrounded by flames. He 
then transferred his headquarters to the imperial palace 
of Petershoff, about a league from the outer circuit of the 



THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 283 

city ; after which he gave orders for the evacuation." 
" We left Moscow," says Gen. Dumas, " under a real rain 
of fire. The wind was so violent that it carried to a great 
distance the iron plates which were torn from the roofs 
and made red-hot by the flames. The feet of our horses 
were burnt. It is impossible to form an idea of the con- 
fusion that prevailed in this precipitate evacuation. The 
noise of the fire resembjed the warring of the waves ; it 
was truly a tempest in an ocean of fire. We bivouacked 
on the skirts of a little wood from which we could behold 
this frightful spectacle — the image of Hell." Napoleon 
himself said : " It was the spectacle of a sea and billows 
of fire, and sky and clouds of flame. Mountains of red 
rolling flame, like immense waves of the sea, alternately 
bursting forth and elevating themselves to skies of fire, 
and then sinking into the ocean of flame below. Oh ! it 
was the most grand, the most sublime, and the most ter- 
rific sight the world ever beheld." 

THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 

Coi.. Eidolon. 

How often, when the wished-for prize is near. 

And all its beauties agitate the soul. 
Is the gay smile exchanged for sorrow's tear, 

And every feeling bursts without control ? 
How often is man's feeble arm upraised 

In opposition to unchanging fate? 
How often is the hero men have praised, 

Made, but by great circumstances, great ? 
Yet would I not decry the fate of him 

Before whose name all Europe once could bow ; 



284 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Before whose brightness other flames grow dim, 

Whose laurel is yet green upon his brow. 
No, no, I would not pluck one laurel leaf 

From out the crown Napoleon proudly won ; 
The first, the last, with reign as bright, as brief 

As meteors, rushing headlong to the sun. 
Aye, proudly could I worship at thy shrine, 

Napoleon, Europe's greatest, brightest son ; 
For none has lived whose fame can equal thine, 

In cabinet or field, save our own Washington. 

'T is noon of night, the wind is high, 
And clouds and tempests shroucj the sky. 
And sleet, and snow, and wind are driven 
From every quarter of the heaven ; 
None are abroad at this wild hour, 

And Moscow's streets deserted lay 
For show and pomp, and pride and power. 

Had all been shorn away. 
No beauteous moon in splendour rolled 

And tipped with gold her thousand spires; 
No twinkling stars their love-tales told. 

No Borealis lit their fires. 
'T was silence all — save when a blast 

More keen and shrill came sweeping by ; 
The snow in clouds was upward cast, ' 

As winds were warring with the sky. 
Around, the snow in hillocks piled, 

Each hut and palace covered o'er ; 
Man shrank aghast from scenes so wild, 

Each moment wilder than before. 
The sentry marched his lonely round. 

Lonely indeed on night so dire ; 
He stops — what is that startling sound.? 

The Kremlin sentry's cry of " fire." 



THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 285 

What ! ho ! Mortier ! awake ! awake ! 

But Mortier's ear had caught the sound, 
For balmy sleep will oft forsake 

One girt with dangerous horrors round. 
" Fire ! fire ! " the sentries loud proclaim, 

The dreadful drama has begun ; 
Moscow is wrapt at once in flame — 

From every spot the people run. 
The scene had opened — night and storm, 

And fire and shouting filled the air ; 
On every hand was loud alarm, 

On every face was blank despair. 
The flames arise — huge balls of fire 

Appear as falling from the clouds ; 
Now crashes some high towering spire. 

Forth rush with shrieks the startled crowds, 
Sullen explosions shake the earth, 

And dull and rumbling sounds are heard. 
Such as presage an earthquake's birth. 

When every secret depth is stirred ; 
Then bursts the flames on every side 

The clouds seem waves of liquid fire. 
A whirlwind fierce directs the tide 

That rolls o'er Moscow in its ire. 
Most dreadful night ; confusion reigns, 

At every point is raging fire; 
The elements have burst their chains ; 

And still grow fiercer, wilder, higher. 
Onward it drives, like ocean-wave 

When tempests make the waters rave. 
Mortier's Young Guard amid this scene 

Of awful desolation rushed ; 
Blacked and begrimed, they spring between 

The crushing and the crushed ; 
More swiftly still the flames arose. 



286 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And nobly, yet in vain, they strove ; 
They seemed to triumph o'er their foes, 
And towards the Kremhn drove. 

'T is morn, 't is noon, 't is night, and still 

The city burned with fiercer glow ; 
The howling storm and shouting fill 

With terror friend and foe. 
Napoleon holds the Kremlin yet. 

But watches with an anxious eye. 
Nor leaves it, though the stern Murat 

Beseeches him to fly. 
He paced the chamber to and fro, 

The element comes sweeping nigher; 
When rises from the crowd below 

The cry, " The Kremlin is on fire ! " 
Slowly he left the palace then 

With sullen movement of despair, 
Like to a goaded lion when 

The hunters near his lair. 

Again 't is day — again 't is night ; 

The hurricane with fiercer blast 
Drives o'er the city in its might ; 

The burning roofs are upward cast. 
The city was a sea of flame ; 

The heavens a canopy of fire ; 
The clouds like boiling wave became ; 

Now they advance and now retire ; 
And here and there a trembling spire 

Looms darkling, like a ship's tall mast 
Above this desolation dire ; 

A moment — and 't is downward cast. 
Behold that palace, proud and fair, 

That rears its turrets to the skies. 
Reels, tumbles, falls in ruins there ; 



THE BURNING OF MOSCOW. 287 

And crushed beneath, the cottage lies. 
The mothers gaze with tearful eyes, 

Where once their homes and children smiled ; 
The infants scream with piteous cries, 

Affrighted at a scene so wild ; 
They rush along the fiery street. 

Bearing whate'er they love the most 
Or, gathered into groups, they meet 

Death, when each hope is lost. 
'T is done : grim Desolation bends 

Her form where once a city rose, 
Destroyed by those who were its friends, 

To save it from its foes. 
Now may we pause, the shout is dumb, 

The hurricane is stilled at last ; 
No more is heard the distant hum. 

That told the swiftly coming blast. 
The fire is quenched, save here and there 

Bursts fiercely forth a fitful flame ; 
In sullen mood, in dire despair, 

The troops retire with naught but fame. 
'T is silence, sadness, ruin all. 

And friend and foe look on aghast ; 
Does it presage Napoleon's fall. 

That thus he should be checked at last? 
A day of Empire, brief and bright. 
To set at last in endless night. 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 

While the idea was a barbarous one, the burning of 
Moscow by the Russians had that of subHme devotion to 
one's country in it which would have ranked the origina- 
tor of the scheme, had he then lived, high up among the 
Roman heroes of ancient times. In a modern, civihsed 
nation, with art, refinement, Culture, and education de- 
veloped as they are to-day, such a sacrifice, even to save 
the nation's very existence, would not be thought of. 

After the fire had burned itself out for want of ma- 
terial to feed upon, and nothing was left of that magnifi- 
cent city but the massive Kremlin, Napoleon and his 
army moved back within its walls ; he taking up his 
quarters at the Kremlin, his soldiers doing as best they 
could out of the ruins which surrounded them. Order 
prevailed, and all the machinery of a well-governed 
municipality was set in motion. Actors and singers came 
from Paris, and the evening entertainments of the Tui- 
leries were revived at the palace of the Czar. The army 
was fed, clothed, and recruited up to beyond the strength 
of what it was when it entered the city. The sick and 
wounded were in the ranks again, and everything looked 
hopeful for a successful termination of the campaign. 
For over a month this delusion was indulged in. Alex- 
ander would surely soon sue for peace, thought Napoleon, 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 289 

and so he lingered on, until, one day, instead of the peace- 
ful messenger expected, a terrible snow-storm came to 
tell him he had stayed too long. Men he could contend 
with, but a Russian winter he was in no condition to con- 
front, and, on the twenty-third of October, a retreat was 
ordered ; a retreat which was to leave a record behind it 
unparalleled in history for the terrible suffering it brought 
to all those who participated in it. Beaten nowhere by 
mortal foe, the elements were at last to vanquish the 
Grand Army, The order to retreat came to the ears of 
Napoleon's veterans as a new sound, unheard of before, 
and it was in sullen silence they turned their backs to the 
enemy and their faces towards home. 

Of the many poems written on the subject we have 
chosen the following two as embodying, in our judgment, 
the best description of what that retreat really was. One 
was written by an Englishman ; the other by a French- 
man, and yet how near alike, putting aside the personal 
animus of the writers, do they tell the awful stor)'. 

THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 

George Croly. 
Magnificence of ruin ! what has time 
In all it ever gazed upon of war, 
Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime, 
Seen, with that battle's vengeance to compare ? 
How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar! 
Like pampered lions from the spoil they came ; 
The land before them silence and despair. 
The land behind them massacre and flame ; 
Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now? 
A name. 



290 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEOA'. 

Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep, 
Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood. 
When mighty torrents from their channels leap, 
Rushed through the land the haughty multitude, 
Billow on endless billow ; on through wood, 
O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale, 
The death-devoted moved, to clangour rude 
Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail, 
Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale. 

Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still 
Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay, 
The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill, 
Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay ; 
In vain the startled legions burst away ; 
The land was all one naked sepulchre ; 
The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, 
Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear. 
Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mouldering 
drear. 

The field was as they left it ; fosse and fort 
Steaming with slaughter still, but desolate ; 
The cannon flung dismantled by its port ; 
Each knew the mound, the black ravine whose strait 
Was won and lost,, and thronged with dead, till fate 
Had fixed upon the victor, — half undone. 
There was the hill, from which their eyes elate 
Had seen the burst of Moscow's golden zone ; 
But death was at their heels, they shuddered and rushed 
on. 

The hour of vengeance strikes. Hark to the gale ! 
As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds. 
That from the north in sullen grandeur sail 



THE FJiENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 29 1 

Like floating Alps. Advancing darkness broods 
Upon the wild horizon, and the woods, 
Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill, 
As the gust sweeps them, and those upper floods 
Shoot on their leafless boughs the sleet-drops chill, 
That on the hurrying crowds in freezing showers distil. 

They reach the wilderness ! The majesty 
Of solitude is spread before their gaze. 
Stern nakedness, — dark earth and wrathful sky. 
If ruins were there, they long had ceased to blaze ; 
If blood was shed, the ground no more betrays. 
Even by a skeleton, the crime of man ; 
Behind them rolls the deep and drenching haze, 
Wrapping their rear in night ; before their van 
The struggling daylight shows the unmeasured desert wan. 

Still on they sweep, as if their hurrying march 
Could bear them from the rushing of His wheel 
Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Heaven's clear arch 
At once is covered with a livid veil ; 
In mixed and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel ; 
Upon the dense horizon hangs the sun, 
In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel ; 
The snows wheel down through twilight, thick and dun ; 
Now tremble, men of blood, the judgment has begun ! 

The trumpet of the northern winds has blown, 
And it is answered by the dying roar 
Of armies on that boundless field o'erthrown ; 
Now in the awful gusts the deserts hoar 
Is tempested, a sea without a shore, 
Lifting its feathery waves. The legions fly ; 
Volley on volley down the hailstones pour ; 
Blind, famished, frozen, mad, the wanderers die. 
And dying, hear the storm but wilder thunder by. 



292 A METRICAL HISTORY OF I\'APOLEON. 

Such is the hand of Heaven ! A human blow 
Had crushed them in the flight, or flung the chain 
Round them where Moscow's stately towers were low 
And all bestilled. But thou ! thy battle-plain 
Was a whole empire ; that devoted train 
Must war from day to day with storm and gloom, 
(Man following, like the wolves, to rend the slain) 
Must lie from night to night as in a tomb. 
Must fly, toil, bleed for home ; yet never see that home. 

THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. 

Victor Hugo. 

It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red ! 

For once the Eagle was hanging its head. 

Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back 

On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black. 

The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign 

Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain. 

Nor chief, nor banner in order could keep. 

The wolves of warfare were 'wildered like sheep. 

The wings from centre could hardly be known 

Through snow o'er horses and carts o'erthrown, 

Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn 

Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn : 

Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode 

Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad. 

The shells and bullets came down with the snow 

As though the heavens hated these poor troops below. 

Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold. 

Who ne'er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold 

Marched stern ; to grizzled moustache hoar-frost clung 

'Neath banners that in leaden masses hung. 

It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze 

Whistled upon the glassy, endless seas, 



THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. 293 

Where naked feet on, on for ever went, 

With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent. 

They were not living troops as seen in war, 

But merely phantoms of a dream, afar 

In darkness wandering, amid the vapour dim, — 

A mystery ; of shadows a procession grim, 

Nearing a blackening sky, into its rim. 

Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold 

Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold, 

A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense, 

A shroud of magnitude for host immense ; 

Till every one felt as if left alone 

In a wide wilderness where no light shone, 

To die, with pity none, and none to see 

That from this mournful realm none should get free. 

Their foes the frozen North and Czar — That, worse. 

Cannons were broken up in haste accurst 

To burn the frames and make the pale fire high, 

Where those lay down who never woke, or woke to die. 

Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled 

Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread. 

'Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised 

O'er regiments. And History, amazed, 

Could not record the ruin of this retreat, 

Unlike a downfall known before the defeat 

Of Hannibal — reversed and wrapped in gloom! 

Of Attila, when nations met their doom ! 

Perished an army — fled French glory then. 

Though there the Emperor ! he stood and gazed 

At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed 

In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw — 

He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe. 

Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love 

Kept those that rose all dastard fear above. 

As on his tent they saw his shadow pass — 



294 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas ! 

His fortune's star! it could not, could not be 

That he had not his work to do — a destiny ? 

To hurl him headlong from his high estate, 

Would be high treason in his bondman. Fate, 

But all the while he felt himself alone, 

Stunned with disasters few have ever known. 

Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul. 

What more was written on the Future's scroll ? 

Was this an expiation ? It must be, yea ! 

Returned to God for one enlightening ray. 

" Is this the vengeance. Lord of Hosts? " he sighed, 

But the first murmur on his parched lips died. 

" Is this the vengeance ? Must my glory set } " 

A pause : his name was called ; of flame a jet 

Sprang in the darkness — a Voice answered: "No! Not 

yet." 
Outside still fell the smothering snow. 
Was it a voice indeed ? or but a dream ! 
It was the vulture's, but how like the sea-bird's scream. 



THE FATHER OF THE REGIMENT. 

No body of men ever went through the same trials and 
came out of them with a better record than did the Grand 
Army of France on its retreat from Moscow. The soldiers 
composing that army, it is true, were but human and many 
proved weak and cowardly when the crucial test came to 
be applied ; but, as an offset to this side of the story, we 
find the history of that retreat full of recitals of noble 
deeds of heroic daring and self-sacrifice. Marshal, grena- 
dier, and drummer-boy stood ever ready to suffer if some 
more needy might possibly profit thereby. In November, 
in the midst of a blinding snow-storm, the Grand Army 
(or what was left of it), with the exception of Marshal 
Ney's corps, crossed the Dnieper. How different was 
the passage then from what it had been a few months 
before, in the full glow of a summer's day, with victory 
and glory attending every forward movement. Then 
every soldier was looking towards Smolensk as the place 
where food, shelter, and rest were to be found ; now they 
were fleeing from the city as if it were plague-stricken. 
Ney, lost in the snow, and Davoust, grimly holding the 
enemy in check while the Dnieper was being crossed,, 
were not the only heroes of the Russian campaign. The 
incident mentioned in the following poem is but an illus- 
tration of the many that occurred during that memorable 
retreat. 

295 



296 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

THE FATHER OF THE REGIMENT. 

Walter Thornbury. 

Thick snow-wreaths weighed upon the firs, 

Snow shrouded all the plain, 
Snow brooded in the dusky clouds, 

Snow matted the chill rain. 
Snow filled the valleys to the brim. 

Snow whitened all the air ; 
The snowdrifts on the Dnieper road 

Blinded us with their glare. 

The white snow on our eagles weighed, 

It capped each crimson plume ; 
Knee-deep it now began to rise. 

Striking us all with gloom. 
It clotted on our waggon wheels, 

And on our knapsacks weighed, 
It clung to every soldier's breast. 

And every bayonet-blade. 

It quenched the shells and dulled the shot 

That round us faster fell. 
As all our bayonets glancing moved 

Down the long Russian dell 
That to the Dnieper river bore. 

Ney battled in our rear ; 
Griloff was nearly on us then. 

The Cossacks gathered near. 

The Russian lancers charged our guards. 

Our grenadiers, and horse ; 
The Russian serfs, with axe and knife, 

Were gathering in force, 
As floods of us with carts and guns 



THE FATHER OF THE REGIMENT. 29/ 

Bore down upon the ridge 
That led, by snowy swathes and slopes, 
Unto the Dnieper bridge. 

The sun, a dull broad spot of blood, 

Smouldered through icy clouds ; 
The snow, in blinding heavy flakes. 

Was weaving soldiers' shrouds. 
Here lay a powder-waggon split. 

Its wheels all black and torn, 
And there a gun half buried in 

The ruts its weight had worn. 

Drums splashed with blood and broken swords 

Were scattered everywhere ; 
Our shattered muskets, shakos pierced. 

Lay partly buried there. 
Guns foundered, chests of cartridge burst 

Lay by the dead defaced ; 
By hasty graves of hillocked snow 

You could our path have traced. 

Still one battalion firm was left, 

Made up of Davoust's men, 
" The Vieille Roche " we called the band 

In admiration then. 
The " Father of the Regiment," 

De Maubourg, led us on, 
With the old Roman's iron will. 

Though hope had almost gone. 

Two sons he had, who guarded him 

From every Cossack spear ; 
One was a grenadier, whose heart 

Had never known a fear; 



A MEDICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The other boy a lusty drum 

Beat by his father's side ; 
I often saw the father smile 

To see the stripling's pride. 

There came a rush of ponderous guns, 

Grinding the red-churned snow, 
Making their way o'er dying men 

Unto the bridge below. 
Ney gathered close his prickly squares 

To keep the Russians back, 
For fast those yelling Cossacks came 

Upon our bleeding track. 

Maubourg was there erect and firm 

I saw him through the fire; 
He stooped to kiss a dying friend. 

Then seemed to rise the higher. 
Great gaps the Russian cannon tore 

Through our retreating ranks, 
As slowly, grimly, Ney drew back 

Unto the river banks. 

Shot in the knee I saw Maubourg, 

Borne by his sons — slow — slow ; 
They staggered o'er the muddy ruts 

And through the clogging snow. 
" Fly, leave me, children ! Dear to France 

Young lives are," then he said. 
They both refused : a round shot came. 

And struck the eldest — dead. 

The boy knelt weeping by his side. 

Trying in vain to lift 
The old man's body, which but sank 

The deeper in the drift. 



THE FATHER OF THE REGIMENT. 299- 

" Leave me, my child ! " he cried again. 
" Think of your mother, — go. 
We meet in heaven. I will stay. 
Death is no more my foe." 

The boy fell weeping on his breast, 

And there had gladly died, 
But I released his clutching hands, 

And tore them from his side. 
One kiss — no more — and then he went. 

Beating his drum for us ; 
I did not dare to turn and see 

The old man perish thus. 

Again there came a rush of spears, 

But we drove on the guns. 
We — bronze and iron with the heat 

Of the Egyptian suns. 
The eagles led, — our bayonets pressed 

Over the Dnieper bridge ; 
Ney was the last to turn and pass 

Down the long, gory ridge. 

The boy became a marshal, sirs ; 

I saw him yesterday 
Talking to Soult, who loves right well 

To chat of siege and fray. 
He often finds our barracks out 

And comes to see us all. 
We who escaped from Moscow's fire, 

From Russian sword and ball. 



PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA. 

Human foresight and skill could not have done more 
than was done by Napoleon to prevent the awful sacrifice 
of life which took place at the passage of the Beresina. 
What was left of the army itself, had it not been encum- 
bered by more than its own number of stragglers, would, 
no doubt, have succeeded in crossing the river with but 
the ordinary loss of such a manoeuvre, undertaken in the 
face of a desperate foe. But fate seemed cruel, and those 
who had suffered so much on account of the needless 
invasion of Russia, were to suffer still more before France 
and home were reached. The horrors of that appalling 
catastrophe are vividly pictured in the following lines. 

PASSAGE OF THE BERESINA. 

Lydia Huntley Sigourney. 

On with the cohorts, — on ! A darkening cloud 
Of Cossack lances hovers o'er the heights ; 
And hark ! — the Russian thunder on the rear 
Thins the retreating ranks. 

The haggard French, 
Like summoned spectres, facing toward their foes. 
And goading on the lean and dying steeds 
That totter 'neath their huge artillery, 
Give desperate battle. Wrapt in volumed smoke 
A dense and motley mass of hurried forms 
Rush towards the Beresina. Soldiers mix 
300 



PASSAGE OF THE B ERE SIN A. 301 

Undisciplined amid the feebler throng, 

While from the rough ravines the rumbling cars 

That bear the sick and wounded, with the spoils, 

Torn rashly from red Moscow's sea of flame, 

Line the steep banks. Chilled with the endless shade 

Of black pine-forests, where unslumbering winds 

Make bitter music, — every heart is sick 

For the warm breath of its far, native vales. 

Vine-clad and beautiful. Pale, meagre hands 

Stretched forth in eager misery, implore 

Quick passage o'er the flood. But there it rolls, 

'Neath its ice-curtain, horrible and hoarse, 

A fatal barrier 'gainst its country's foes. 

The combat deepens. Lo ! in one broad flash 

The Russian sabre gleams, and the wild hoof 

Treads out despairing life. 

With maniac haste 
They throng the bridge, those fugitives of France, 
Reckless of all, save that last, desperate chance, 
Rush, struggle, strive, the powerful thrust the weak. 
And crush the dying. 

Hark ! a thundering crash, 
A cry of horror ! Down the broken bridge 
Sinks, and the wretched multitude plunge deep 
'Neath the devouring tide. That piercing shriek 
With which they took their farewell of the sky, 
Did haunt the living, as some doleful ghost 
Troubleth the fever-dream. Some for a while,, 
With ice and death contending, sink and rise, 
While some in wilder agony essay 
To hold their footing on that tossing mass 
Of miserable life, making their path 
O'er palpitating bosoms. 'T is in vain ! 



302 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The keen pang passes and the satiate flood 
Shuts silent o'er its prey. 

The severed host 
Stand gazing on each shore. The gulf, — the dead 
Forbid their union. One sad throng is waned 
To Russia's dungeons, one with shivering haste 
Spread o'er the wild, through toil and pain to hew 
Their many roads to death. From desert plains, 
From sacked arid solitary villages 

Gaunt Famine springs to seize them ; Winter's wrath, 
Unresting day or night, with blast and storm, 
And one eternal magazine of frost, 
Smites the astonished victims. 

God of Heaven ! 
Warrest thou with France, that thus thine elements 
Do fight against her sons ? Yet on they press. 
Stern, rigid, silent, — every bosom steeled 
By the strong might of its own misery 
Against all sympathy of kindred ties. 
The brother on his fainting brother treads ; 
Friend tears from friend the garment and the bread, - 
That last, scant morsel, which his quivering lip 
Hoards in its death-pang. Round the midnight fires, 
That fiercely through the startled forest blaze. 
The dreaming shadows gather, madly pleased 
To bask and scorch and perish,— with their limbs 
Crisped like the martyr's, and their heads fast sealed 
To the frost-pillow of their fearful rest. 
Turn back, turn back, thou fur-clad emperor, 
Thus toward the palace of the Tuileries 
Flying with breathless speed. Yon meagre forms, 
Yon breathing skeletons, with tattered robes, 
And bare and bleeding feet, and matted locks, 



PASSAGE OF THE BEKESINA. 303 

Are these the high and haughty troops of France, 

The buoyant conscripts, who from their blest homes 

Went gayly at thy bidding ? When the cry 

Of weeping Love demands her cherished ones, 

The nursed upon her breast : — the idol-gods 

Of her deep worship, — wilt thou coldly point 

The Beresina, — the drear hospital. 

The frequent snow-mound on the unsheltered march. 

Where the lost soldier sleeps ! 

O War ! War ! War ! 
Thou false baptised, who by thy vaunted name 
Of glory stealest o'er the ear of man 
To rive his bosom with thy thousand darts. 
Disrobed of pomp and circumstance, stand forth, 
And show thy written league with sin and death. 
Yes, ere ambition's heart is seared and sold 
And desolated, bid him mark thine end 
And count thy wages. 

The proud victor's plume, 
The hero's trophied fame, the warrior's wreath 
Of blood-dashed laurel, — what will these avail 
The spirit parting from material things ? 
One slender leaflet from the tree of peace, 
Borne, dove-like, o'er the waste and warring earth. 
Is better passport at the gate of Heaven. 



THE FLIGHT. 

Historians do not agree upon the question whether 
or not Napoleon should have left the army before it was 
safely out of Russian territory. Most of them, however, 
concur in the opinion that good policy demanded his 
presence at Paris, and that once there he would be able 
to do more towards saving the army than he possibly 
could by remaining at headquarters ; but they differ 
materially when they come to the moral part of the ques- 
tion. However right or wrong his critics, Napoleon him- 
self thought, directly after the crossing of the Beresina, 
that his presence was needed more at home than with his 
comrades in the field, and on the fifth of December he 
turned the command of the army over to Murat and set 
out for Paris. He, evidently, made a mistake in trusting 
his brother-in-law the way he did, and no doubt it would 
have been better for the immediate welfare of the army 
could he have remained in person with it. But the situ- 
ation was a critical one. The near success of Malet's. 
conspiracy, based as it was merely upon a forged report 
of his death, proved how necessary it was becoming for 
Napoleon to keep himself before his people at Paris. 
His star was on the decline. So many mourning house- 
holds had cast a shadow over its brilliancy, and nothing 
but another Austerlitz could save it from total eclipse. 
304 



THE FLIGHT. 305 

The magic of his presence was the great hope of his 
friends. The Enghsh writers, as usual, took advantage 
of Napoleon's misfortune ; and the subject of his leaving 
the army was handled by them in a way not at all com- 
plimentary to his character or to his courage. 

THE FLIGHT. 

Anon. 

Bonaparte flew off in a pet, 

On a sledge, over deep Russian snow, 

To proclaim to the world he was beat, 
And had met a complete overthrow. 

To Paris he hied him away. 

Stealing home like a thief in the night ; 
Afraid to approach it by day. 

Lest the people might view his sad plight. 

And calling revenge for their friends. 

Left to perish midst Russia's bleak wild, 

The child for his father demands, 
The mother cries loud for her child. 

What answer the Ruffian could make, 

'T is hard for one's thoughts to conceive ; 

But sure on his throne he must shake, 
And his horrors no art can relieve. 

In vain may he write Bulletins, 

Heaping lies upon lies as before, 
The truth now too naked is seen. 

And his slaves will believe him no more. 

But rising en viasse through the realm. 

Break their chains on the murderer's head. 



3o6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

In his fulness of sin overwhelm 

Him, and lay the wretch low with the dead. 

Then may Freedom revisit their lands, 
And Europe's deep wrongs be redress'd, 

When a Tyrant no longer commands, 
The people no more are oppress'd. 

" Qa Ira / " then let every, one sing. 
When these joyous events shall arise. 

Peace will come then with balm on her wing, 
And Gratitude's voice reach the skies. 



TO NAPOLEON, FLYING FROM WILNA. 

What Napoleon's thoughts were, as, wrapped in si- 
lence and gloom, he flew over the barren, inhospitable 
snows towards warm and sunny France, no one could 
know. Behind him was the starved and frozen wreck 
of the grandest army he had ever led into battle ; before 
him lowered the dark clouds of doubt and unrest ; and 
treason confronted him in the guise of many whom he 
had loaded with favours. Had his star betrayed him into 
making the fatal mistake of his life ; or was he again to 
lead his legions on to greater victories than they had yet 
won ? Impenetrable were his thoughts. Not even the 
keen eye of an Englishman could pierce the veil which 
concealed so well that wonderful mind. 

TO NAPOLEON, FLYING P^ROM WILNA. 

R. A. Davenport. 

Lone Fugitive, where are the throngs that late 

Thou led'st in martial pomp ? Well may'st thou start ! 

Fallen are unnumber'd legions ! small the part 
That lives, to curse thee with a rancorous hate. 
Close at thy heels the Russ, in victor state, 

Comes thundering on ; and terror chills thy heart. 

In every hand thou see'st of death the dart. 
And hear'st in every breeze the voice of fate. 
307 



308 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Proud Lord, thy boasted star with dimmer Hght 

Begins to burn ! In soHtary woe 
Thus ever may"st thou fly, and wild affright. 

So Persia's king, his countless hosts laid low, 
Urged o'er the insulted wave his lonely flight, 

And shuddering, thought each sound announc'd the 
vengeful foe. 



THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. 

The Abbe de Pradt, then French Ambassador at War- 
saw, gives a detailed account in his Embassy to Warsaw in 
1812, of the interview he had with Napoleon, as the Em- 
peror and those who accompanied him passed through 
that city on their way to Paris. It is this story Mr. 
Thornbury has taken for the basis of the principal scene 
pictured in his poem, and it is the Abbe himself who is 
there represented as narrating the occurrence. No one 
of Napoleon's friends has ever believed the story as 
told by Pradt. It is full of prejudice and extravagance, 
and reads more like a caricature than an effort at truth 
telling. What is said about the condition and conduct 
of the wretched remnant of the Grand Army is nearer 
the mark. But the story, as a whole, is a curious one, and 
it will profit the student of Napoleonic history to read it 
in its entirety. 

THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. 

As it appeared to a certain Abbe, at Warsaw, December 10, 1812. 

Walter Thornbury. 

The yellow snow-fog curdled thick, 
Dark, brooding, dull, and brown, 

About the ramparts, hiding all 
The steeples of the town ; 

309 



3IO A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The icicles, as thick as beams, 
Hung down from every roof. 

When all at once we heard a sound 
As of a mufifled hoof. 

'T was nothing but a soldier's horse, 

All riderless and torn 
With bullets ; scarce his bleeding legs 

Could reach the gate. A morn 
Of horror broke upon us then ; 

We listened, but no drum — 
Only a sullen, distant roar. 

Telling us that they come. 

Next, slowly staggering through the fog, 

A grenadier reeled past, 
A bloody turban round his head, 

His pallid face aghast. 
Behind him, with an arm bound up 

With half a Russian flag, 
Came one — then three — the last one sopped 

His breast with crimson rag. 

All day the frozen, bleeding men 

Came pouring through the place ; 
Drums broken, colours torn to shreds, 

Foul wounds on every face. 
Black powder-waggons, scorched and split. 

Broad wheels caked thick with snow. 
Red bayonets bent, and swords that still 

Were reeking from the blow. 

The ground was strewn with epaulettes, 
Letters, and cards, and songs ; 

The barrels, leaking drops of gold, 
Were trampled by the throngs. 



THE RE TREA T FROM MO SCO W. 3 1 1 

A brutal, selfish, goring mob, 

Yet here and there a trace 
Of the divine shone out, and lit 

A gashed and suffering face. 

Here came a youth, who on his back, 

His dying father bore ; 
With bandaged feet the brave youth limped, 

Slow, shuddering, dripping gore. 
And even 'mid the trampling crowd. 

Maimed, crippled by the frost, 
I found that every spark of good 

Was not extinct and lost. 

Deep in the ranks of savage men 

I saw two grenadiers 
Leading their corporal, his breast 

Stabbed by the Cossack spears. 
He saved that boy, whose tearful eyes 

Were fixed upon the three — 
Although too weak to beat his drum 

Still for his company. 

Half-stripped, or wrapped in furs and gowns. 

The broken ranks went on ; 
They ran if anyone called out 

" The Cossacks of the Don ! " 
The whispered rumour, like a fire. 

Spreads fast from street to street. 
With boding look and shaking head 

The staring gossips meet. 

" Ten thousand horses every night 

Were smitten by the frost ; 
Full thirty thousand rank and file 

In Beresina lost. 



312 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The Cossacks fill their caps with gold 

The Frenchmen fling away. 
Napoleon was shot the first, 

And only lived a day — 

" They say that Caulaincourt is lost — 

The guns are left behind : 
God's curse has fallen on these thieves — 

He sent the snow and wind." 
Tired of the clatter and the noise, 

I sought an inner room, 
Where twenty wax-lights, starry clear, 

Drove off the fog and gloom. 

I took my wanton Ovid down, 

And soon forgot the scene, 
As through my dreams 1 saw arise 

The rosy-bosomed queen. 
My wine stood mantling in the glass 

(The goblet of Voltaire), 
I sipped and dozed, and dozed and sipped. 

Slow rocking in my chair. 
When open flew the bursting door, 

And Caulaincourt stalked in — 
Tall, gaunt, and wrapped in frozen furs 

Hard frozen to his skin. 

The wretched hag of the low inn 

Puffed at the sullen fire 
Of spitting wood, that hissed and smoked 

There stood the Jove whose ire 
But lately set the world aflame. 

Wrapped in a green pelisse. 
Fur-lined, and stiff with half-burnt lace. 

Trying to seem at ease. 



THE RE TREA T FROM MO SCO W. 3 1 3 

" Bah ! Du sublime au ridicule 

II n'y a qu'un pas," 
He said. " The rascals think they 've made 

A comet of my star. 
The army broken ? — dangers ? — pish ! 

I did not bring the frost. 
Levy ten thousand Poles, Duroc — 

Who tells me we have lost ? 

" I beat them everywhere, Murat — 

It is a costly game ; 
But nothing venture, nothing win — 

I 'm sorry now we came. 
That burning Moscow was a deed 

Worthy of ancient Rome — 
Mind that I gild the Invalides 

To match the Kremlin dome. 

" Well ? well as Beelzebub himself ! " 

He leaped into the sleigh 
Sent for to bear the Caesar off 

Upon his ruthless way. 
A flash of fire ! — the court-yard stones 

Snapped out— the landlord cheered — 
In a hell-gulf of pitchy dark 

The carriage disappeared. 



BONAPARTE'S RETURN TO PARIS, INCOG. 

Napoleon reached Paris on his return from Moscow 
at midnight on the eighteenth of December, 1812, and 
history relates how, upon being ushered into the room of 
the Empress, she did not, at first, recognise him as the 
Emperor, and how, for a moment, great confusion ensued ; 
she thinking some intruder had broken in upon her slum- 
bers. The scene must have been ludicrous in the extreme ; 
the ci-devant mighty conqueror stealing back to his own 
like a thief in the night, instead of with the blare of trum- 
pets and the booming of cannon, that had always there- 
tofore announced his triumphant return from the field of 
battle. Upon this occasion he and his famous twenty- 
ninth bulletin arrived in Paris about the same time. What 
a revelation they brought to every fireside in France. 
Instead of the usual victory, they brought news of such 
a disaster as had never before fallen to the lot of the 
brave soldiers of the Grand Army. If there ever was an 
occurrence in the history of this great man, which would 
excuse the writing of such verses as the following, it was 
upon the occasion of his return to Paris, for surely the 
manner of his return, and the reception he met with at the 
hands of his august spouse, were anything but dignified. 
Although the author does not confine himself strictly to 
the truth, there is enough of the reality in his recital to 
save it from being called pure fiction. 
314 



Napoleon, Emperor. 
From the engi'aving by Wilson. 

Published at Stockport, England, in 1805, as the frontispiece of a work 

entitled the " Nativity of Napoleon Bonaparte," etc., etc., 

by John Worsdale. 



BONAPARTE'S RETURN TO PARIS, INCOG. 315 

BONAPARTE'S RETURN TO PARIS, INCOG. 

Anon. 
As Maria Louisa lay pond'ring in bed 

With the sweet King of Rome, the dehght of beholders, 
" I wonder," thought she, " where old Nap rests his head, 
Or indeed if he 's got e'en a head on his shoulders. 

" For 't is whispered, I hardly know how to believe it, 
That Nap has in Russia been terribly bang'd, 

So drubb'd and disgraced, he can never retrieve it. 
Yet if it be true, I 'd as lieve he were hang'd. 

" To drag me from home and each tender relation, 
In France, every horror, and danger to brave. 

In hourly terror of assassination, 

For being of Boney, the wife — and the slave. 

" Oh ! would that I never had left my dear Father, 
I 've repented but once — ever since, to my sorrow, 

Were the time to come over again, I would rather 
Than be Boney's Empress — be buried to-morrow. 

" For none here surmise how basely he treats me, 
Ye Frenchmen, — the English, ye call Johnny Bull, 

Yet, if they but knew how Napole cheats ye, 

They well might return, and call you Fanny Gull. 

" Alas, and alas, I hope that he never, 

He never again, to me will come back, 
Oh ! then I would sing, Te Deum for ever. 

And marry for joy some handsome Cossack." 

So ponder'd Maria, when all in a minute, 
A terrible ringing was heard at the gate — 

" 'T is a Courier," thought she, " I hope there 's some 
good in 't. 
And that rascal Old Nappy has met with his fate. 



3l6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" Fly, my maids," she exclaims, — "ye soldiers, all fly — 
I faint with impatience — what is it, you log ? 

Come tell me — be quick — " " Please, your Majesty, 
The Emperor himself has arrived — incog." 

" You villain, you lie," cried Maria Louisa, 

" 'T is a falsehood you utter to torture your Queen.' 

" Oh, I am arrived, of her troubles to ease her! " 
Exclaims a gruff varlet, of horrible mien. 

Maria turn'd round, and full in her view 

Stood an object, of shoes, and of breeches bereft, 

His skin of a swarthy and mud-colour'd hue. 
And on his thin back, scarce a tatter was left. 

" What, you ! " cried Maria, and scream'd with affright 
"You sans-culotte ruffian, what is it you say? 

Here, soldiers — a thief under cover of night 
Has led all the sentinels' senses astray. 

" Here, seize him, and bind him — the infamous dog 
Would pass himself off for your Emperor Nap, 

And coming stark naked, to call it incog, — 

Besides, he 's a thousand miles off, by the map." 

*' Oh, this is too bad, parbleu ! I declare," 

Cried Nappy the Great — for 't was him all the while— 

" Madame, dis is carrying de joke too far, 

I 'm de Grand Napoleon, I swear — you may smile — 

" Vincenza ! diable ! what, can you not speak ! 

Am I le Grand Napoleon ? say yes, or no : 
Where 's the King of Rome ? Were he but awake, 

In a moment, his Father the Emperor, he 'd know. 

" What, smiling again ! — Vincenza ! you 're dumb ! 
I shall surely go mad — how 's this ? — I 'm betray'd ! ' 



BONAPARTE'S RETURN TO PARIS, INCOG. 317 

Vincenza reflected — the time was not come 
To strike a safe blow — so he stammering said : 

" Madame — by gar, it is all very true, 

Dis is de Grand Emperor, I do assure you, 

Through frost, and through snow, full many a mile 
We 've scamper'd — the Cossacks behind us the 
while — " 

'* Peace, idiot ! " cried Nap, " a plague on your throat, 
What have Cossacks with me, or your story to do ? 

You know while I slumber'd they pilfer'd my coat, 
And this rag — is one that I borrow'd of you." 

Vincenza bow'd low, and Maria with grief 

Saw the Tyrant again, as her Lord she must own, 

And swallow the tale of the Cossack and thief. 

And share with a sans-culotte Emperor the throne. 

So she rush'd to his arms with well-acted surprise. 
And wept on his shoulder, tears true from her heart ; 

Wlien Boney exclaim'd, " Now, Madame, use your eyes, 
And trace thro' his tatters the great Bonaparte." 

" Yes, yes, I can trace him," she archly replied, 
" Yet I ne'er saw so much of his person before ; " 

" Yet, Madame ! " cried Nap, distending with pride, 
I 'm cover'd with glory for evermore." 

" It may be," said Maria, " yet you don't seem to warm," 
Cried Vincenza, " With cold, and with hunger, we 're 
dead ! " 
" Peace, worm ! " — thundered Nap, "You the Empress 

alarm, 
" Retire — Madame, will you lead me to bed ? " 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 

Mr. Wordsworth was one of the few English writers 
who treated Napoleon as a rational fellow being, and who, 
while not in favour of him as a ruler of the French nation, 
was willing to give him fair treatment. In his summing 
up of the cause and effect of the terrible fate which over- 
took the French army on its retreat through the frozen 
wilderness of Russia, Wordsworth frankly admits that it 
was not Alexander's skill, nor his soldiers' valour which 
conquered those legions that had never before known 
defeat, and he asserts that it was the elements, alone, 
which accomplished the task of obliterating from the face 
of the earth one of the finest armies the world ever saw. 

THP: FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 

1812-I3. 

William Wordsworth. 
Humanity, delighting to behold 
A fond reflection of her own decay, 
Hath painted Winter like a traveller old. 
Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen day. 
In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain. 
As though his weakness were disturbed by pain ; 
Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
An undisputed symbol of command. 
The chosen sceptre is a withered bough. 
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand 
31S 



THE FRENCH ARMY IN RUSSIA. 319 

These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn, 
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 

For he it was — dread Winter ! who beset, 

Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net, 

That host, when from the regions of the Pole 

They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal — 

That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied 

Their God, and placed their trust in human pride! 

As fathers persecute rebellious sons, 

He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth ; 

He called on Frost's inexorable tooth 

Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold ; 

Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; 

For why — unless for liberty enrolled 

And sacred home — ah ! why should hoary Age be bold ? 

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed. 
But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind 
Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed, 
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, 
And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride. 

And to the battle ride. 
No pitying voice commands a halt. 
No courage can repel the dire assault ; 
Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, 
Whole legions sink — and, in one instant, find 
Burial and death ; look for them — and descry, 
When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky, 
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 



SONG OF LIBERTY. 

After his return to Paris from the ill-fated Russian 
campaign, Napoleon began at once to prepare for another 
struggle ; a struggle which was to prove more disastrous 
to his hopes than the one through which he had just 
passed. He was once more about to enter the field 
against combined Europe, and this time, for the first since 
he had come into power, were the frontiers of France to 
be invaded by her foes. Prussia was the first of his allies 
to break away from him and enter into an alliance with 
Russia. Sweden had already joined the coalition, and 
Austria was about to join hands in the fight. Spain and 
Portugal were lost, and Wellington was on the march to 
invade France from the South. Murat, to save his own 
throne, agreed to turn his guns against the man who had 
given him his sister in marriage, and who had made it 
possible for him to be a king. Jomini was about to de- 
sert his flag in the face of the enemy, and Moreau was 
already on his way from America to join the Emperor 
Alexander. The death struggle of the mighty con- 
queror was at hand and terrible the struggle was to be. 
All Germany was being aroused and united in a common 
cause against the " French Usurper." The song-writers 
of the Fatherland were soon to reap the harvest of their 
labours. 



SONG OF LIBERTY. 32 1 

The following song was composed on the march of the 
Prussian army from Potsdam to Breslau, and was the first 
German song of liberty published in 1813. 

SONG OF LIBERTY. 

La Motte FouQuft. 

Mount ! mount ! for sacred freedom fight ! 

The battle soon must be. 
The night is past, and red the light 

Streams o'er the dewy lea. 

Up ! let the coward idlers sleep ! 

Who envies them their rest? 
We march with joyful hearts to keep 

Our honoured king's request. 

To us he said : " My brave ones all ! 

My chasseurs ! where are they?" 
Responsive to his patriot call 

We hastened to obey. 

We vowed to strike with mighty hand 

As it becomes the free — 
A safeguard for our native land 

With heaven's grace to be. 

Sleep calmly, wives and children dear ! 

To God your sorrows tell. 
The hour, alas ! of blood is near. 

But all your fears dispel. 

Approved we hasten to the field ; 

What though the strife begins ! 
'T is joy our loved ones thus to shield, 

For pious courage wins. 



322 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Returning, all may not be found ! 

But some, in glory's grave. 
Shall never hear the songs resound 

Of those they died to save. 

Come, glowing heart ! despise the pain 
Of death ; for, evermore, 

Shall he who falls, a kingdom gain 
On heaven's eternal shore I 



THE VISIT TO THE MILITARY HOSPITAL. 

On the fifteenth of April, 1813, Napoleon left Paris for 
headquarters. The veterans of the Grand Army, the 
soldiers who had fought at Lodi, at Marengo, and at 
Austerlitz, had disappeared, nearly to a man, beneath the 
snows of Russia, or under the burning suns of Spain and 
Portugal. The army which was about to undertake the 
gigantic task of beating back the threatened tide of in- 
vasion consisted, almost wholly, of conscripts ; boys who 
had never faced a foe or fired a gun upon the field of 
battle, and yet these boys, every one of them, were to 
prove themselves heroes. With these youthful warriors 
the battles of Lutzen and Bautzen were fought and won. 
Never in his whole military career did Napoleon prove 
himself a greater general than he did during the campaign 
of 18 1 3. The odds against him were simply overpower- 
ing, and it was fated that mere numbers alone were soon 
to crush him. 

The battle of Lutzen was fought on the second of May, 
1813, and what, at first, looked like a most disastrous defeat 
was turned, by the timely appearance of Napoleon upon 
the field, into one of his most glorious victories. A few 
days before the battle the Old Guard lost its gallant leader. 
Marshal Bessieres, who had commanded this invincible 
band since 1796, but, even without him, the Guard had 
323 



324 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

still to experience its first defeat, and it finished at Lut- 
zen the work which the conscripts had so well begun. 
Bautzen was fought on the twenty first of May, following, 
and it resulted in another brilliant victory for the French 
cause. Both these battles were won, because the love the 
young conscripts bore to their Emperor equalled that of 
his old veterans ; it was a devotion on their part till death. 
The scene pictured in the following poem is not a fancy 
one, but one that shows how Napoleon was worshipped 
by his soldiers, even as they fought, with death for their 
foe, their last fight. 

THE VISIT TO THE MILITARY HOSPITAL. 
(After Bautzen, 1813.) 

Walter Thornbury. 

" This is the fate of those who war," 

Napoleon said to me ; 
" High at the morn, but low at night. 

Take down that map and see 
How many leagues we won to-day. 

Ten losses. I retire. 
One Victory. Berlin, Breslau, 

Shall crumble at my fire." 

We stood outside the Thirteenth Ward, 

He spoke as hushed and low 
As if each word on some sick man 

Would fall a smiting blow ; 
He turned the handle very soft 

As to one sleeping, then 
We stood beside the line of beds, 

Among the wounded men. 



THE VISIT TO THE MILITARY HOSPITAL. 3 

He laid his hand with woman's care 

Upon a soldier's brow ; 
The dying face turned slowly up. 
" Do you not know me now? 
Your Emperor ? " The dying lips 

Struggled for life, the heart 
Beat once, the sick man faltered out, 
" Comrades, 't is Bonaparte ! " 

Then with a groan lay down again, 

To pray for him and die. 
The tears sprang up into my eyes 

When faint and weak, the cry 
Ran through the ward of Austerlitz, 

** The Emperor is come ! " 
And one poor boy with bandaged hand 

Caught at his broken drum. 

The dying on their pillows rose, 

To swell the hoarse, low cheer 
That rolled along — 't was pitiful, 

Yet saddening to hear. 
" My children," cried the Emperor, 

" My old Imperial Guards, 
My ' Salamanders,' ' Never-turns,' 

My ' Lions,' my ' Die-hards,' 

" I love you as I love my life ; 

We are the self-same stock. 
France cares for you — 't was you who bled 

To build her on the rock ; 
Your wives and orphans she will take 

To her capacious heart. 
Dare she forget them while he reigns, 

Your little Bonaparte? 



326 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" My children " But the rare seen tears 

Rose up and filled his throat, 
As every bugler took his horn 

And blew the battle note ; 
And then the wounded drummer boy, 

Two dead men's beds betwixt. 
Crawled to the floor and slung his drum, 

And plied his little sticks. 

A one-armed man took off a flag 

He 'd bound around his waist, 
To stop and staunch the brave heart's blood 

That from his gashes raced. 
He waved it round his feeble head, 

His large eyes all a-fire. 
Then let it drop, and laid him down, 

The brave man — to expire. 



BONEY AND DUROC. 

The comrades of his early triumphs were dropping out, 
one by one. Lannes was the first to answer the final 
roll call. Bessieres' turn came next, and now, by a bullet 
which seemed to have spent its force and to have already 
performed its deadly work, Duroc was for ever separated 
from his beloved chief. " One after the other the stars 
were setting in the constellation of his first years of 
glory." Duroc was, perhaps, nearer to Napoleon, and 
knew him more intimately, than any other of the brilliant 
warriors who had followed him through all his years of 
wonderful success. There can be no possible doubt that 
the death of Duroc deeply affected the Emperor, and 
that he lost in him one of the few really faithful friends 
he had among all those famous marshals, who were great 
because Napoleon had made it possible for them to be- 
come so. What a vile parody the following lines are on 
the last interview which took place between these two 
friends as Duroc lay dying, and yet, they are only in tune, 
with all that was written in those days by Englishmen 
about any and every thing connected in any way with 
the " hated tyrant " who occupied the " usurped " throne 
of France. 

327 



328 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

BONEY AND DUROC. 

Tune — " The Vicar and Moses." 

Anon. 

When the darkness of night 
Put an end to the fight. 

And the thunder of Death ceas'd to shock ; 
To supply a full stop, 
A huge cannon-ball pop, 

Came and brought on his marrows Duroc. 
Tol de rol, etc. 

When he heard this mishap. 
Soon appeared mighty Nap, 

His eyes for defeat were o'erflowing ; 
Duroc thought 't was for him, 
Bid him dry up each glim, 

But exclaimed—" Sire, for you I am going! 
Tol de rol, etc. 

Boney cried, " Yes, I see 
You 're no longer for me, 

I 'm sorry such hero to lose ; 
Too true you have said. 
In glory's great bed. 

You must take a bit of a snooze." 

Tol de rol, etc. 

" But Marshal, my Brother, 
Life there is another ; 

And, Duroc, oh, think what a treat ! 
When enough fam'd in story, 
I '11 go there to glory, 

And there without fail we will meet." 

Tol de rol, etc. 



BONEY AND DUROC. 329 

" That the Pris'ners I Ve shot. 
And the sick sent to pot, 

Make my claim good, I think clear as mud ; 
Eternally happy, 
You '11 be when there, Nappy, 

Has sailed on the ocean of blood." 

Tol de rol, etc. 

^'Yes," Duroc replied, 

** But my grief I can't hide. 

My speech is all broken by tears ; 
I fear, sad presage ! 
You will live to old age. 

And stop here some thirty years longer." 
Tol de rol, etc. 

"Such period I own, 
Bonaparte on the throne, 

I 'm afraid France is destin'd to see ; 
Nor think it a crime, 
When I say that the time 

Will seem long to the Devil and me." 

Fal de ral, de rol, etc. 



THE BATTLE OF DRESDEN. 

After the victory won at Bautzen, Napoleon, as was 
usual with him, offered peace to the Allies ; but the terms 
they insisted upon were such as in honour he could not 
accept. Austria, as yet neutral, pretended to act as 
mediator between the hostile nations ; but, seeking war 
rather than peace, she proclaimed the fact that if peace 
was not accepted by France on the basis laid down by 
herself, she would at once declare war and join the coali- 
tion. Napoleon, knowing well the critical position he 
occupied, offered new concessions to his enemies ; which 
were about to be accepted when the news came of Wel- 
lington's great victory over Soult at Vittoria. This vic- 
tory meant the invasion of France from the south by the 
English army. All terms of peace were at once refused. 
Austria, showing her true colours, declared war, and. with 
two hundred thousand more soldiers to aid them, the 
Allies began the fight, which, this time, was to end in the 
downfall of the man who, alone, had conduered them, 
combined, so many times. Hoping to capture the city 
of Dresden, the Allies attacked it when they knew the 
dreaded Napoleon was far away in Silesia engaged with 
Blucher. Marshal St. Cyr, in command of the city, de- 
fended it nobly, but his young soldiers were no match for 
the overwhelming forces hurled against them, and a sur- 
330 



THE BATTLE OF DRESDEN. 33 I 

render seemed the only alternative left. Napoleon, hear- 
ing of the situation, turned back and with forced marches 
retraced his steps with almost unexampled rapidity tow- 
ards the apparently doomed city. He appeared in sight 
just as the routed garrison were flying from the place, 
and coming with his legions thundering down the sides 
of the mountains and over the bridges of Elbe, he called 
the retreating soldiers back to their duty, and, turning 
suddenly the tide of battle, he never rested until the 
scattered forces of the allied armies were driven far over 
the hills of Erzgebirge. 

THE BATTLE OF DRESDEN. 

Mrs. H. E. G. Arey. 

Back to your posts! Again, again, 

Yon falt'ring flag let victory fill ; 
Pour from your ranks the fiery rain, 

And bid the exulting foe be still. 

Back to your posts ! We come — Ave come, 

A thousand legions, fresh for war. 
Are rushing through the forest's gloom, — 

Are pouring down the mountains far. 

Go, bid th' " astonished eagles " stand. 

And on yon bristling hosts advance ; 
Up, coward heart and fainting hand ! 

Who yields where rides the " Heir of France " ? 

Far where Silesia's waters sweep, 

Beneath us quaked the cofifined dead ; 

The Saxon, from his slumbers deep, 
Woke, startled at our midnight tread. 



332 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And, thundering through each lofty arch, 
Thy bridges, Elbe, our strength have known 

We pause not from our rushing march, — 
On to the breathless conflict — On ! 

The arms of France are burnished still ; 

Yon countless hosts before us met 
May league their legions as they will ; 

Their shouts shall change to wailings yet. 

Forth on their track ! Those hosts in flight 
Shall seek the heather's dreamless bed ; 

And far o'er Erzgebirge's hills, to-night 
The wolves shall match their gory dead. 

Hail, glorious field ! Not yet, not yet 
Hath sunk Napoleon's peerless star ; 

And, where his glittering lance is set. 
Far backward streams the tide of war. 



THE SONG OF THE SWORD. 

In the early spring of 1813 there was published in Ger- 
many the " Fatherland's Call to Arms in the Struggle for 
Liberation," and Karl Theodor Koerner was among the 
first to respond. Not yet twenty-two years old, when he 
fell fighting gallantly for his country, this brilliant young 
German poet did more for the cause of the Fatherland, 
both with his pen and with his sword, than would be 
thought possible in one so young. He was mortally 
wounded in a skirmish which took place on the twenty- 
sixth of August, 181 3, between the Prussian free-corps, 
commanded by Major Lutzon, of which he was a member, 
and the French, near Gadebusch, and he died the same 
day. It was on the morning of the day he was killed that 
he wrote the following song, one of the wildest of his war 
songs, a love-rhapsody to his sword— the soldier's bride. 

Germany owes a great deal to her song-writers, and at 
that time, the period of her sorest need, Koerner did his 
part well, and cheerfully he gave up his young life that 
his country might be free. " 

THE SONG OF THE SWORD. 

Karl Theodor Koerner. 

Sword ! on my left side gleaming. 
What means thy bright eye's beaming? 
It makes my spirit dance 
To see thy friendly glance. 
Hurrah ! 
333 



334 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" A valiant rider bears me ; — 
A free-born German wears me : 
That makes my eye so bright, 
That is the Sword's delight." 
Hurrah ! 

Yes, good Sword, I am free ! 
And love thee heartily ; 
And clasp thee by my side 
Even as a plighted bride. 

Hurrah ! 

" And I to thee, by Heaven, 
My light steel life have given — 
When shall the knot be tied ? 
When wilt thou take thy Bride ? " 
Hurrah ! 

The trumpet's solemn warning 
Shall hail the bridal morning ; 
When cannon-thunders wake, 
Then my true love I take. 
Hurrah ! 

" O blessed, blessed meeting ! 
My heart is wildly beating : 
Come, Bridegroom ! come for me ! 
My garland waiteth thee." 
Hurrah ! 

Why in the scabbard rattle. 
So wild, so fierce for battle ? 
What means this restless glow } 
My Sword? why clatter so? 
Hurrah ! 



THE SONG OF THE SWORD. 335 

" Well may thy prisoner rattle : 
My spirit yearns for battle. 
Rider ! 't is war's wild glow 
That makes me tremble so." 
Hurrah ! 

Stay in thy chamber near, 
My Love ! what wilt thou here ? 
Still in thy chamber bide ! 
Soon, soon I take my Bride. 
Hurrah ! 

" Let me no longer wait, 
Love's garden blooms in state 
With roses bloody-red. 
And many a bright death-bed." 
Hurrah ! 

Now then, come forth, my Bride ! 
Come forth, thou Rider's Pride ! 
Come out, my Good Sword ! come 
Forth from thy father's home ! 
Hurrah ! 

" Oh in the field to prance 
The glorious wedding dance ! 
How, in the sun's bright beams. 
Bride-like the clear steel gleams ! " 
Hurrah ! 

Then forward ! valiant fighters ! 
And forward ! German riders ! 
And, when the heart grows cold. 
Let each his Love enfold ! 
Hurrah ! 



336 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Once on the left it hung, 
And stolen glances flung ; 
Now clearly on your right 
Doth God each fond Bride plight. 
Hurrah ! 

Then let your hot lips feel 
That virgin cheek of steel ! 
One kiss ! and woe betide 
Him who forsakes the Bride ! 
Hurrah ! 

Now let the Loved One sing ! 
Now let the clear blade ring 
Till the bright sparks shall fly, 
Heralds of victory ! 

Hurrah ! 

For hark ! the trumpet's warning 
Proclaims the marriage-morning; 
It dawns in festal pride : 
Hurrah! thou Iron Bride! 
Hurrah! 



MOREAlf. 

From an engraving tiy Eli/al)etli (".. Herhan, after Guerin. 
Paris, I79t). 



ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL MOREAU. 

" Throw a dozen bullets at once into that group ; per- 
haps there are some little generals in it." The above 
words, pronounced by Napoleon at the battle of Dresden, 
sealed the fate of his old rival Moreau. It is said that 
when Moreau met Jomini in the camp of the allied 
armies, Moreau expressed surprise to find Jomini bearing 
arms against France, to which Jomini replied : " Yes, but 
I am not a Frenchman." Moreau felt the rebuke keenly 
and turned away without further remark. The hero of 
Hohenlinden, fighting against his own countrymen, was 
certainly a strange turn in history ; but it was then a 
time when one after another the men who had been 
heroes were fast becoming traitors. They were the rats 
deserting the ship that had carried them safely to fame 
and glory, now that the ship itself was in hourly danger 
of being wrecked. The fate which overtook Moreau was 
a terrible price to pay for a few hours of vain-glorious 
boasting. With both legs carried away by a cannon ball 
—he died, taking with him to the grave the hatred he 
bore towards the man who had it in his power in 1804 to 
have had him shot as a traitor and a conspirator. 

The praise bestowed upon Moreau in the lines which 

follow were little deserved by him, however great his 

ability and his early glory. 
22 

337 



338 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL MOREAU. 

John Ambrose Williams. 

Soul of the Chief ! whose glory-crested name, 
Whose worth, whose valour lives in endless fame, 
A tear — wet tribute to thine urn I pay, 
For all my heart is melted in my lay. 
When Europe, bursting from oppression, shook 
A despot's power, and dar'd his fiercest look. 
Thy genius smil'd, and from Columbia's shore 
Flew to the aid of millions — slaves no more. 

*' To arms! to arms ! " each gallant sovereign cried, 

" To arms ! to arms ! " each patriot voice replied : 

Forth thousands rush'd, impetuous, for the flight, 

And hail'd Moreau their blest protecting light. 

The chief beheld the patriot bands advance. 

And charge, with souls of fire, the hosts of France, 

" On ! on ! ye brave ! " th' ill-fated hero cries, 

** Slavery 's your doom, or freedom be your prize ; 

Maintain the conflict, blood, 't is true, must flow. 

War still must breed fresh ravage and fresh woe ; 

But virtuous blood shall not in vain be spilt, 

Peace it shall purchase and o'erpower guilt." 

He said — bright Heaven ! death speeded with the wind. 

And instant struck the hope of half mankind, 

Destructive fire, O fatal scene ! he fell. 

Cold are his shatter'd limbs, — brave chief, farewell ! 



BLUCHER'S BALL. 

The victory won at Dresden was barren of any decisive 
advantage to the French cause. Even before the roar 
of the battle had ceased, Macdonald was compelled at 
Katzbach to acknowledge a signal defeat at the hands of 
that sturdy old Prussian, Marshal Blucher ; Vandamme 
was overthrown in Bohemia; Oudinot was confronted by 
his old comrade-in-arms, Bernadotte, and victory perched 
upon the banner of the King of Sweden ; Ney was as- 
sailed and beaten by an overwhelming force of the Allies. 
Such were the tidings brought to Napoleon as he lay on 
a sick bed at Dresden, worn out and exhausted by 
almost superhuman exertion. 

Blucher was forging to the front in those days, and his 
was the fiery spirit which was to push the fight, even to the 
very walls of Paris. The " debauched old dragoon " was 
becoming the leader and the inspiration of all Germany. 

BLUCHER'S BALL. 

Adolf Ludwig Pollen. 

By the Katzbach, by the Katzbach, ha ! there was a merry 

dance ; 
Wild and weird and whirling waltzes skipped ye 

through, ye knaves of France ! 
For there struck the great bass-viol an old German master 

famed, — 
Marshal Forward, Prince of Wallstadt, Gebhardt Lebrecht 

Blucher named. 

339 



340 .^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Up ! the Bliicher hath the ball-room lighted with the 
cannon's glare ! 

Spread yourselves, ye gay, green carpets, that the dancing 
moistens there ! 

And his fiddle-bow at first he waxed with Goldberg and 
with Jauer ; 

Whew ! he 's drawn it now full length, his play a stormy 
northern shower ! 

Ha ! the dance went briskly onward, tingling madness 
seized them all : 

As when howling, mighty tempests on the arms of wind- 
mills fall. 

But the old man wants it cheery, wants a pleasant danc- 
ing chime ; 

And with gun-stocks clearly, loudly, beats the old Teu- 
tonic time. 

Say, who, standing by the old man, strikes so hard the 
kettle-drum, 

And, with crushing strength of arm, down lets the thun- 
dering hammer come? 

Gneisenau, the gallant champion : Alemannia's envious 
foes 

Smites the mighty pair, her living double-eagle, shivering 
blows. 

And the old man scrapes the sweep-out : hapless Franks 
and hapless trulls ! 

Now what dancers leads the graybeard ? Na ! ha ! ha ! 
't is dead men's skulls ! 

But, as ye too much were heated in the sultriness of hell. 

Till ye sweated blood and brains, he made the Katzbach 
cool ye well. 

From the Katzbach, while ye stiffen, hear the ancient 
proverb say, 

''Wanton varlets, venal blockheads, must with clubs be 
beat away ! " 



THE BATTLE OF LEIPZIG. 

The battle of Leipzig, fought on the sixteenth and the 
eighteenth of October, 1813, was most disastrous in its 
result to the already waning fortune of the great Em- 
peror. It had been the purpose af the Allies all through 
this campaign to avoid coming in contact with Napoleon 
personally. At Dresden they did not think it possible 
for him to be in the city ; hence their attack. Moreau 
and Jomini had given them good advice ; to fight the 
French marshals on every occasion offered, but to run 
from the invincible chief. At Leipzig they felt strong, 
and confident enough to risk a combat, with Napoleon 
in personal command of the French Army. During two 
days the awful conflict was kept up, and had it not been 
for vile treachery and infamous desertion the result of 
the battle might have been the reverse of what it was. 
Assailed by double his own number, betrayed and de- 
serted by those in whom he trusted. Napoleon was forced 
to order a retreat — a retreat which was to prove second 
only to the retreat from Russia in calamity and woe. 
After his victory at Dresden Napoleon proposed the 
scheme of advancing directly on Berlin ; thus compelling 
the Allies to retrace th,eir steps in order to defend that 
city and their own country ; but he was overruled, and 
Leipzig was the result. Perhaps, had the Emperor fol- 
341 



342 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

lowed out his plan, the mighty genius with which he was 
endowed would again have astonished the world by de- 
ferring his near downfall, if not avoiding it altogether. 

Ernest Moritz Arndt, the author of the following poem, 
was one of the German writers of those days who did so 
much in uniting the Fatherland in its efforts to over- 
throw the hated French ruler. 

THE BATTLE OF LEIPZIG. 

Ernest Moritz .Arndt. 

" Whence comest thou in thy garments red, 
Soiling the hue of the green grass plain ? " 
" I come from the field where brave men bled. 
Red from the gore of the knightly slain. 
Repelling the crash of the fierce assailing ; 
Mothers and brides may be sorely wailing, 
For I am red." 

" Speak, comrade, speak, and tell me true ; 
How call ye the land of the fateful fight ? " 
"At Leipzig the murd'rous fierce review 
Dimmed with full tear-drops many a sight ; 
The balls like winter snowflakes flying. 
Stifled the breath of thousands dying, 
By Leipzig town." 

" Name me the hosts that in battle array 

Let fly their diverse banners wide." 

" All lands to join in the dread affray 

Against the hated French took side ; 

The gallant Swede and the 'valiant Prussian, 

The Austrian famed in fight and the Russian — 

All, all went forth." 



THE BATTLE OF LEIPZIG. 



343 



" And who in the strife won the hard-fought day, 
And who took the prize with iron hand ? " 
" God scattered the foreigner Hke the sea-spray, 
God drove off the foreigner Hke the h"ght sand ; 
Many thousands covered the grass sward lying. 
The rest Hke hares to the four winds flying, 
With Napoleon too." 

" God bless thee. Comrade, thank thee well ! 

A tale is this the full heart to cheer," 

Sounds like a cymbal of heavenly swell, 

A story of strife and a story of fear, 

Leave the widows and brides to their wail of sorrow 

We '11 sing a glad song for full many a morrow 

Of the Leipzig fight. 

Leipzig, good town of the fair lindens shade, 

A day of proud glory shall long be thine ; 

So long as the years roll their ceaseless grade. 

So long as the suns shall continue to shine. 

So long as the streams to the ocean are seeking, 

So long shall thy sons be the fond praise speaking 

Of the Leipzig fight. 



PONIATOWSKI. 

It was a fatal mistake, on the part of some one, that 
but a single bridge afforded passage across the river 
Elster to the retreating French army after the battle of 
Leipzig. The result proved how great an oversight it 
was. The premature blowing up of this bridge, which 
was an inexcusable blunder, cut Napoleon's army in two 
and left more than twenty-five thousand men without 
means of escape and completely at the mercy of the vic- 
torious Allies. To Marshals Macdonald and Poniatowski 
had been assigned the forlorn task of defending the city 
and of holding back the enemy until the rest of the army 
had safely crossed the river. Bravely were these gallant 
warriors striving to perform that duty when the sound of 
the awful explosion at the bridge reached their ears and 
told them of the utter impossibility of their saving the 
devoted soldiers who had so nobly stood by them. It 
became at once a question of every man for himself. 
Macdonald plunged with his horse into the river and 
escaped to the opposite side ; but not so the brave and 
heroic Pole. Thrice wounded, he endeavoured to cross 
the stream which lay between him and safety, but the 
struggle was too much for the sorely tried marshal and 
he sank, never again to rise. For his gallant conduct on 
the field of battle Poniatowski had received from the 
hand of Napoleon but the day before the baton of a 
344 



PON I A TO J J 'SA'l. 345 

Marshal of France. Commanding the extreme rear guard 
of the French army, and almost surrounded by the enemy 
he was fighting to hold back, he drew his sword when he 
heard the noise of the fatal explosion, and turning to those 
around him, said : " Gentlemen, it now becomes us to die 
with honour." It is hard to believe the story of the death 
of such a hero, as it is told by Beranger, himself a 
Frenchman. 

PONIATOWSKI. 

Pierre Jean de Berangkr. 

What ! are ye flying, conquerors of the world ? 

Hath Fortune blundered before Leipzig's walls ? 
What, flying ! whilst the bridge blown up and hurled 

In ruins back, to the hoarse torrent falls ! 
Men, horses, arms, all wildly mingled, there 

Are plunged ; the Elster rolls encumbered by ; 
But deaf it rolls to vow or tear or prayer : 

" frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved ! " 
the cry. 

" Naught but a hand ? a plague on him who craves ! 

Press on, press on ! for whom should we delay ? " 
'T is for a hero sinking in the waves, 

'T is Poniatowski, wounded thrice to-day. 
Who cares ? Fear bids them haste with savage speed, 

To stern, cold hearts for aid doth he apply ; 
The waters part him from his faithful steed : 

" Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved ! " 
his cry. 

He dies — not yet — he struggles — swims — once more 
The charger's mane his clutching fingers feel. 

" What ! to die drowned ! whilst there upon the shore 
I hear the cannon, and I see the steel ! 



346 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Help, comrades, help ! You boasted I was brave ! 

I loved you — this my blood should testify. 
Ah ! 't is for France some drops I still would save ! 

Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved ! " 
his cry. 

There is no succour ! and his failing hand 

Lets go its guide : " Poland, adieu, adieu ! " 
But lo ! a dream descends at Heaven's command. 

With brilliant image dawning on his view. 
" Ha ! the White Eagle to the combat wakes ; 

All soaked with Russian blood I see it fly, 
Loud on mine ear a hymn of glory breaks : 

Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved ! " 
his cry. 

There is no succour ! he is dead, — the foe 

Along the reedy shore their camp have made. 
That day is distant ; but a voice of woe 

Still calls beneath the waters' deepest shade. 
And now (great God ! give man a willing ear) 

That mournful voice is lifted to the sky ! 
Wherefore from heaven re-echoed to us here, 

" Frenchman, give but a hand, and I am saved ! ' 
the cry. 

'T is Poland, 't is her faithful sons' lament : 

How oft our battles she hath helped to gain ! 
She drowns herself in her own heart's blood, spent 

With lavish flow, her honour to maintain. 
As then the Chief, whose mangled corse was found 

In Lister's waves, — he for our land did die, — 
Now calls a nation, o'er a gulf profound, 

" Frenchman, give but a hand, and we are saved ! 
the cry. 



PRINCE WREDE'S DEATH. 

Deserted by all his allies, his own brother-in-law, 
Murat, among the number. Napoleon's days of triumph 
were over. Borne down by the irresistible force of brute 
strength alone, he made in 1813 a truly wonderful strug- 
gle for the cause of France, and bitterly did his foes pay 
for every advantage gained by them. At Hanau the 
Austrian and Bavarian armies sought to cut off his re- 
treat. It cost them ten thousand men to try the experi- 
ment ; which proved a most disastrous failure on their 
part. The Bavarian General Wrede forfeited his life in 
this battle as a penalty for fighting against his old com- 
mander, whom he had followed so often to victory. 

PRINCE WREDE'S DEATH. 

Arthur Rapp. 

By Hanau, where the Kinzig dark and deep. 
To meet the Main, rolls on its treacherous way, 
Right on the road to Frankfurt, it is spanned 
By an old bridge, built strong of basalt grey. 
Midway, encased within the basalt wall, 
A narrow marble tablet marks a name. 
'T is but the one word, " Wrede," but it speaks 
To German hearts of glory and of fame. 

Napoleon, after Leipzig's stern defeat, 
To gain his France once more, here on his way 
347 



348 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEOK. 

Met proud Bavaria's proudest prince. At last 
The dauntless lion found himself at bay. 
But, though ten thousand French were forced to find 
In Kinzig's treacherous flood a horrid grave, 
Prince Wrede, too, fell, wounded unto death. 
Yon tablet marks the spot. God rest the brave ! 

And now the legend goes, that on this spot 
Where Wrede fell, his ghost is often seen. 
For, when the moon with her full flood of light 
Upon that tablet throws her silver sheen, 
'T is said, the prince, casting upon the flood 
A pitying look, tries, so the story goes. 
To stem the rushing waters, and to save 
The drowned thousands of his ghostly foes. 



Bl.OCHKR. 

From an enyraviiig by J. Swaine, after a drawing from life by F. Rehberg. 
London (no date). 



BLUCHER AT THE RHINE. 

With the close of the year 1813 came an end to all 
hope for any material success on the part of the French 
army. One after another, the strongholds and fortresses 
held by France in Germany succumbed, and over eighty 
thousand soldiers became prisoners in the hands of the 
Allies. It was no longer a question of conquest beyond 
the Rhine, but one of whether France could prevent the 
crossing of that stream by the armies of her foes. Fate 
was against him. Napoleon's star approached the hori- 
zon in its downward course, and in a short time it was 
destined to disappear altogether. On the twenty-first of 
December the Austrian army crossed the Rhine, and on 
the last day of the year the Prussian army followed. It 
was Blucher who urged and inspired this movement. The 
Allied Sovereigns, strong as they were, hesitated to at- 
tack the lion in his own den, but the sturdy old marshal 
had his way and the march to Paris began. 

BLiiCHER AT THE RHINE. 

August Kopisch. 

'T was on the Rhine the armies lay : 
To France or not ? is 't yea, or nay ? 
They pondered long, and pondered well ; 
At length old Blucher broke the spell : 
349 



350 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" Bring here the map to me ! 
The road to France is straight and free. 
Where is the foe ?" — " The foe, why here ! 
*' We '11 beat him ! forward ! never fear ! 
Say, where lies Paris? " — " Paris here ! " 
" We '11 take it ! forward ! never fear! 
So throw the bridge across the Rhine, 
Methinks the Frenchman's sparkling wine 
Will taste the best where grows the vine ! " 



THE GAULS AND FRANKS. 

On the morning of the twenty-fifth of January, 1814, 
Napoleon left Paris for the last time, but one, to take 
command of his army. He had invested the Empress 
with the Regency, and had confided her safety and that 
of their son to the guardianship and protection of his 
subjects in the capital. He never saw either wife or son 
again. More than a million men were pouring in from all 
sides upon unhappy France. The Rhine no longer held 
back the advancing hosts on the one side, nor did the 
Pyrenees prove a barrier on the other. Napoleon could 
not muster over two hundred thousand soldiers, all told, 
to check the flood that was sweeping everything from its 
path. So much intrigue, so much desertion and treachery, 
so much misery, and so many vacant firesides had frozen 
the blood of France, until even such a stirring appeal as 
the following had no effect to bring about a general up- 
rising. As Napoleon himself once said : " Frenchmen in 
times of victory are heroes ; in times of defeat they are 
children." At the date of the following noble invocation, 
the armies of the Allied Sovereigns were rapidly advan- 
cing on Paris. 

THE GAULS AND FRANKS. 
(January, 1814.) 

Pierre Jean de Beranger. 
Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, 
Hope of France ! 
351 



352 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
Forward, forward, Gauls and Franks ! 

Blindly following the call 
Of Attila, again 
Comes the barbarian train. 
Doomed a second time to fall, 
Vanquished on the fields of Gaul. 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 

Leaving his morass behind, 
Mark how the rude Cossack, 
In place of bivouac, 
Trusts the English that he '11 find 
Comfort, in our halls reclined. 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 

Shivering all his days, ill-fed, 
The Russ, in snowy waste 
Pent up, no more would taste 
Acorns and his own black bread. 
Craving ours, so white, instead. 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 

Wines we have in luscious store, 
Laid up for us to toast, 
The victories we boast — 

These shall thirsty Saxons pour? 

Ours the song, the cup, no more? 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 



THE GAULS AND FRANKS. 353 

Daughters passing fair have we — 

Too fair for foul embrace 

Of hideous CahTiuck race — 
Wives, whose charcns are rare to see — 
Sons of theirs should Frenchmen be? 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 

What ! the monuments so dear — 

Trophies that now so well 

Of all our glory tell — 
These in ruins disappear ! 
What, in Paris ! Prussians here ! 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 

Noble Franks, and honest Gauls ! 

Peace, man's best friend below, 

Ere long herself will show. 
Blessing, here within your walls, 
Triumphs won where honour calls. 

Cheerly, cheerly, close the ranks ! 
On, advance, etc. 



ODE. 

If Southey had had no other theme to write about than 
** Napoleon and His Misdeeds," he would have had sub- 
ject enough. He was such an intense hater of the head 
of the French Government, and had such a desire to write 
him down, that his fertile pen could hardly keep pace 
with the rapid working of his mind. Honesty of purpose 
and truth in recital had no place with this poet. His only 
aim, seemingly, was to slander and villify the man he 
hated. 

Early in January, 1814, Napoleon sought peace with 
the Allies, which was refused by them with scorn. They 
offered a cessation of hostilities, not a peace, but at the 
price of a surrender by Napoleon of all he had gained for 
France during the preceding twenty years. The Rhine, 
the Pyrenees, and the Alps were to be the boundaries be- 
yond which France could not go. These terms, harsh as 
they were, were accepted and would, probably, have been 
the basis of a treaty had not England interfered. She 
would listen to no terms but the dethronement of Na- 
poleon and the restoration of the Bourbons, and she had 
her way. 

ODE. 

(Written during the negotiations with Bonaparte, in January, 1814.) 

Robert Southey. 
Who counsels peace at this momentous hour, 
When God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd 
And to the injured power ? 

354 



ODE. 355 

Who counsels peace, when vengeance, like a flood. 
Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd ; 
When innocent blood 
From the four corners of the world cries out 

For justice upon one accursed head; 
When freedom hath her holy banners spread 
Over all nations, now in one just cause 
United ; when, with one sublime accord, 
Europe throws off the yoke abhorr'd, 
And loyalty, and faith, and ancient laws 
Follow the avenging sword ! 

Woe, woe to England ! woe and endless shame 
If this heroic land, 
False to her feelings and unspotted fame, 
Hold out the olive to the tyrant's hand ! 
Woe to the world, if Bonaparte's throne 
Be suffer'd still to stand ! 
For by what name shall right and wrong be known, — 

What new and courtly phrases most we feign 
For falsehood, murder, and all monstrous crimes, 
If that perfidious Corsican maintain 
Still his detested reign. 
And France, who yearns even now to break her chain 
Beneath his iron rule be left to groan ? 
No ! by the innumerable dead, 
Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed, 
Death only can for his foul deeds atone ; 
That peace which death and judgment can bestow. 
That peace be Bonaparte's, — that alone ! 

For sooner shall the Ethiop change his skin, 
Or from the leopard shall her spots depart, 
Than this man change his old, flagitious heart. 



356 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Have ye not seen him in the balance weigh'd 
And there found wanting ? On the stage of blood 
Foremost the resolute adventurer stood ; 
And when by many a battle won, 
He placed upon his brow the crown, 

Curbing delirious France beneath his sway, 

Then, like Octavius in old time, 
Fair name might he have handed down. 
Effacing many a stain of former crime. 
Fool ! should he cast away that bright renown ! 
Fool! the redemption proffer'd should he lose ! 
When Heaven such grace vouchsafed him that the way 
To good and evil lay 
Before him, which to choose. 

But evil was his good, 
For all too long in blood had he been nursed. 
And ne'er was earth with verier tyrant cursed. 
Bold man and bad. 
Remorseless, godless, full of fraud and lies, 
And black with murders and with perjuries, 
Himself in hell's whole panoply he clad ; 
No law but his own headstrong will he knew, 

No counsellor but his own wicked heart. 
From evil thus portentous strength he drew, 
And trampled under foot all human ties. 
All holy laws, all natural charities. 

O France ! beneath this fierce barbarian's sway 

Disgraced thou art to all succeeding times ; 

Rapine and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way 

All loathsome, all unutterable crimes. 

A curse is on thee, France ! from far and wide 

It hath gone up to heaven. All lands have cried 

For vengeance upon thy detested head ! 



ODE. 357 

All nations curse thee, PVance ! for whercso'er, 
In peace or war, thy banner hath been spread, 
All forms of human woe have follow'd there. 
The living and the dead 
Cry out alike against thee ! They who bear, 
Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke, 
Join in the bitterness of secret prayer 
The voice of that innumerable throng, 
Whose slaughter'd spirits day and night invoke 
The everlasting Judge of right and wrong, 
How long, O Lord ! Holy and Just, how long ! 

A mercilesss oppressor hast thou been. 

Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime ; 
Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain 
Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime, 
And rivet faster round thyself the chain. 
Oh ! blind to honour, and to interest blind, 
When thus in abject servitude resign'd 
To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave 
God's justice, and the heart of human-kind ! 
Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world. 
Thyself the while a miserable slave. 
Behold, the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd ! 
The dreadful armies of the North advance ; 
While England, Portugal, and Spain combined, 
Give their triumphant banners to the wind, 
And stand victorious in the fields of France. 

One man hath been for ten long, wretched years 
The cause of all this blood and all these tears ; 
One man in this most awful point of time 
Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime. 

Wait not too long the event. 
For now whole Europe comes against thee bent. 



358 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

His wiles and their own strength the nations know. 
Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent, 
The people and the princes, with one mind, 
From all parts move against the general foe ; 
One act of justice, one atoning blow. 

One execrable head laid low, 
Even yet, O France! averts thy punishment. 
Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been blind ; 
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 

France, if thou lovest thine ancient fame, 

Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame ! 
By the bones which bleach on Jaffa's beach ; 
By the blood which on Domingo's shore 
Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore ; 
By the flesh which gorged the wolves of Spain, 
Or stiffen'd on the snowy plain 
Of frozen Moscovy ; 
By the bodies, which lie all open to the sky. 
Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the tyrant's flight ; 
By the widow's and the orphan's cry ; 
By the childless parent's misery ; 
By the lives which he hath shed ; 
By the ruin he hath spread ; 
By the prayers which rise for curses on his head,— 
Redeem, O France ! thine ancient fame. 
Revenge thy sufl"erings and thy shame. 
Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been blind ; 
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 

By those horrors which the night 
Witness'd when the torches' light i 

To the assembled murderers show'd 
Where the blood of Conde flow'd ; 



359 



By the murder'd Pichcgru's fame; 
By murder'd Wright — an English name; 
By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom ; 
By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom, — 
Oh ! by the virtuous blood, thus vilely spilt, 
The villain's own peculiar, private guilt, 
Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been bhnd ; 
Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 



LETTER FROM THE KING OF ROME. 

It has always been a question in our mind what turn 
matters would have taken had Napoleon reached Paris 
before the allied armies in the great race for that city in 
1 8 14. Victory after victory had crowned his efforts to 
hold back the tide, fighting, as he did, against odds which 
would have appalled the stoutest heart ; but all his efforts 
were of no avail. The resistless torrent of numbers 
swept onward and forward and forced him to turn aside 
from his victorious course in order to endeavour to suc- 
cour Paris, then sorely in need of his personal aid. King 
Joseph had been left in command of the army at the 
capital with orders to defend the city to the last extrem- 
ity. Marmont and Mortier, outside the walls, strove val- 
iantly to hold the enemy in check until the Emperor might 
be able to come up and defend the city in person ; but the 
task was too heavy a one to be carried out successfully. 
The Allies won the race ; defeated Marmont and Mortier 
before Napoleon could come to their rescue, and Paris 
capitulated after a short but heroic defence. Had Joseph 
been made of the same stuff as his brother, the contest 
would surely have been kept up long enough to enable 
that brother to get within the gates of his capital. 
But Joseph was never a soldier. Good enough in his 
way, he lacked that which would have buried him be- 
neath its ruins sooner than have permitted him to sur- 
360 



LETTER EA'OM THE KING OF ROME. 36 1 

render the city which had been so sacredly entrusted to his 
keeping. Marie Louise, the King of Rome, and the Court 
had left the city ; the heir to the throne being the only one 
who showed any reluctance at leaving the place where 
honour compelled them all to stay, at least a little longer. 
As usual, the English writers took advantage of Na- 
poleon's misfortune and we have below an account, from 
their standpoint, of what was going on in Paris the day 
before the entrance of the allied armies. 

LETTER FROM THE KING OF ROME TO THE EDITOR OF 
THE MORNING CHRONICLE, DATED APRIL 9th, 1814. 

Sir, — Having retired from the cares of government, and 
the toils of military preparation, to study agriculture and 
the fine arts with my Mamma at Rambouillet, I beg to 
present your very facetious and celebrated Journal with 
the first effusions of my Muse, viz., an English versifica- 
tion of my dear Uncle Joe's Proclamation to Papa's good 
city of Paris. Your obedient servant, 

Rome. 

Brave Lads of Paris ! never fear, 
Though Bliicher's force be drawing near ; 
I, Joseph Buonaparte, am here. 

The Empress, I am glad to say. 
And little Rome, have run away, 
To " live to fight another day." 

But, I King Joseph, still remain ; 
I. who was lately sent to reign 
Over those rebel rogues in Spain ; 

Who play'd our foes so deep a game. 
When o'er the Pyrenees I came. 
Inveigling them to do the same. 



362 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

I trick'd the British to advance, 
And led Lord WelHngton a dance 
Into the very heart of France. 

Consider with what wondrous ease 
Your Emperor has beaten these, 
And all his other enemies. 

Consider all he hath achiev'd, 

In Bulletins, by us receiv'd, 

And, under pain of death, believ'd. 

Look on those foes before your gate; 
Consider how he did of late 
The whole of them annihilate. 

Consider, too, the happy plot. 
By which behind them he has got, 
Whether, I 'm told, he would or not. 

Believe me he will soon be here ; 

Already he is in their rear ; 

See how they hither run for fear ! 

He drove them here to meet their fate, 

And (if they for his coming wait) 

He '11 drive them through the city gate 

Or else, perhaps, upon the plain. 
With scornful eye and proud disdain, 
Annihilate them all again. 

Meanwhile, 't is requisite and right 

For every citizen to fight 

A day or two with all his might. 



THE PARTING WITH THE EAGLES, 1814. 

Fancy can only picture the scene when Napoleon 
learned that his beloved Paris was in the hands of the 
Allies, and that his herculean efforts to save the city had 
failed. There was still left him Fontainebleau, and the 
army remained faithful, but how different everything was 
from the former days of his power and glory. Then, the 
mighty in France looked up at him and were dazzled as 
with the brilliancy of the sun ; now, all save his old sol- 
diers fled from him as if he were the betrayer of his coun- 
try and a thing to be despised. The desertion of Mar- 
mont, his comrade-in-arms since the days of Toulon, was 
cowardly in the extreme : but it was only in keeping with 
the fashion of the day. Is it to be wondered at that he 
sought relief in death by his own hands ? But relief was 
not to come. He had still to bear Waterloo and St. 
Helena ; he had still to pay the penalty of being great. 
Forced by circumstances beyond his control, he signed 
his first abdication, and Elba was determined upon as the 
place of his future abode. His parting with the Old 
Guard has been faithfully depicted on canvas by Vernet, 
and also well told by Thornbury in verse. 

THE PARTING WITH THE EAGLES, 1814. 

(1824 — The Soldier's Wife to her Boy, tlie Drummer.) 

Walter Thornbury. 
An April morning ! Fontainebleau 

Stands up and braves the sun ; 
The dew still glitters on the turf 
Where rabbits race and run ; 
363 



364 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

No hunting clamour breaks the hush, 
No hound, or echoing hoof, 

But sprinkHng gold falls on the moat 
And slants athwart the roof. 

A lonely day, and Fontainebleau 

Broods o'er its memories — 
So old, and yet the April bloom 

Is white upon the trees. 
Ten Rasters since ! a different scene 

Was lit by yonder sun. 
When through those rosy almond boughs 

Roared the meridian gun ! 

That palace with its thousand eyes 

Indeed might look aghast, 
As the last scene that closed the play 

Before its windows passed. 
" What do they call that marble horse. 

Just like ours in Sedan — 
A horse for Caesar, lion maned ? " 

" That is the Cheval Blanc." 

This is the horse-shoe staircase where 

The Emperor came down. 
No bloody sceptre in his hand, 

Nor lighting-woven crown, 
But like a simple soldier clad, 

In his plain grey surtout, 
And underneath the epaulettes 

The red that faced the blue. 

That noble tree that sheltered us 
With its extended branch, 

Was smit by steal and split by fire — 
Revanche, mon Dieu, revanche I 



THE PARTING WITH THE EAGLES. 365 

The cruel frosts of Winter came 

And stripped the dying trunk ; 
The leaves were crowns, the boughs were kings — 

Brave blood the tree had drunk. 

The traitor dukes and subject kings 

Fell off like Autumn leaves, 
As stripped as when the April time 

Laughs as old Winter grieves. 
Like blossoms from that wind-scourged thorn 

The traitors dropped from him — 
No wonder that his head was bent 

And that his eye was dim. 

Shall I forget that April noon ? 

The carriages in line, 
Like funeral hearses slowly came 

Through slanting sunbeams' shine. 
Who did they wait for— Balliard, 

Bussy, or Montesquiou, 
La Place, Jouanne, or Athalin, 

Vansowich or Flahaut ? 

The rest are gone, with sneer or jest, 

Regret, or fierce rebuke, — 
Even the valet lured away 

Last night the Mameluke. 
When Ney was false, who could expect 

A scullion to be true? 
Yet still around the close-shut gate 

I saw a faithful few. 

Yes, still the old Imperial Guard 

Were under arms in line — 
Old friends of Austerlitz — the same 

In snow, or rain, or shine. 



366 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Immovable, a wall of steel, 

You might have thought them dead, 

But for "the sullen smouldering fire 
That in their eyes shone red. 

One strikes, and through the opening door 

Napoleon appears ; 
The ruffle of the drum was heard. 

Like thunder came the cheers ; 
The crimson flags blew in and out, 

The tremble of the steel 
Was visible, most visible ! — 

What ! Frenchmen and not feel ? 

Their caps upon the bayonets shook 

As when a conqueror comes 
To greet his soldiers — faster speed 

The rolling of the drums. 
And then a death-like hush so deep — 

You heard the thoughtless bird 
Upon the rosy almond bloom 

A sprinkling snow had furred. 

You heard his measured steps, as quick 

He came down yonder stairs, 
His hand extended for those hands 

Held out to him in pairs. 
He was among them, ringed with steel, 

Erect and stern as when 
The foes he sought to crush at last 

Were gathered in his ken. 

" Farewell, my children ; bring the flag 

For me to kiss and bless ; 
The dying father thinks of thee 

In joy or in distress. 



THE PARTING WITH THE EAGLES. 367 

For twenty years this eagle led 

Our tramplers on kings, 
We who lit fires with sceptre-staffs, 

And counted crowns base things. 

" We now must part. With men like you 

I could have fought for years ; 
But then our country had been drenched 

With blood and mothers' tears. 
I leave you, but ye still will serve 

France, that we so much love: 
God guard her from the ravening hawk 

As angels guard the dove. 

" Farewell and brave, a long farewell — 

'T is very hard to part ; 
Would I could press my children all 

Unto their father's heart." 
They brought the flag that Bertrand bore, 

He clasped it to his arms ; 
Not one but wept, the fiercest there — 

The drum beat the alarms. 

The bayonets shook, the stormy shout 

Burst like a thunder-clap, 
How lightning-quick the fiery beat 

Of the fierce drummer's tap ! — 
A dash of hoofs — the carriage broke 

Impetuous through the crowd, 
And after it the rolling dust 

Rose in a blinding cloud. 



ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE, 

1814. 

For twenty years Europe had been drenched with 
blood. From one end of the country to the other the 
awful carnage had gone on without ceasing. Waiving 
the question of whether or not Napoleon, alone, was re- 
sponsible for all this misery and woe, it is an undeniable 
fact that the peace of 18 14 came as a welcome boon to 
many a household. It was then thought, and with good 
reason, that peace had come to stay and that France, re- 
duced to the boundaries of the Revolution, would no 
longer be an element of disturbance in the politics of 
Europe. Well might the people imagine they had cause 
to rejoice. But did not the fallen chieftain in his little 
island home deserve, at least, pity ? He had paid a fear- 
ful price that the world might slumber without being 
aroused by the thunder of his guns. Whether France 
would remain content under the new order of things, and 
whether her old soldiers would consent to leave their be- 
loved " Little Corporal" to languish in exile, a few short 
months would determine. The people, for the time be- 
ing, at least, were satisfied. 

ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE, 1814. 

John Herman Merivale. 

The hour of blood is past ; 
Blown the last trumpet's blast ; 
Peal'd the last thunders of the embattled line : 
368 



ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE. 369 

From hostile shore to shore 
The bale-fires blaze no more ; 
But friendly beacons o'er the billows shine, 
To light, as to their common home, 
The barks of every port that cut the salt sea foam. 

" Peace to the nations ! " — Peace ! 

O sound of glad release 
To millions in forgotten bondage lying ; 

In joyless exile thrown 

On shores remote, unknown. 
Where hope herself, if just sustain'd from dying. 

Yet sheds so dim and pale a light. 
As makes creation pall upon the sickening sight. 

" Peace ! Peace the world around ! " 
O strange, yet welcome sound 
To myriads more that ne'er beheld her face ; 
And, if a doubtful fame 
Yet handed down her name 
In faded memory of an elder race. 
It seem'd some visionary form, 
Some Ariel, fancy-bred, to soothe the mimic storm. 

Now the time-honour'd few 
Her earlier reign that knew, 
May turn their eyes back o'er that dreamy flood, 
And think again they stand 
On the remember'd land. 
Ere yet the sun had risen in clouds of blood. 
Ere launch'd the chance-directed bark 
On that vast world of ocean, measureless and dark. 

And is it all a dream ? 
And did these things but seem 
The vain delusions of a troubled sieht ? 



370 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Or, if indeed they were, 
For what did nature bear 
The long dark horrors of that fearful night ? 
Only to breathe and be once more 
Even as she was and breathed upon that former 
shore. 

O'er this wild waste of time, 
This sea of blood and crime. 
Doth godlike virtue rear her awful form. 
Only to cheat the sight 
With wandering, barren light, 
The meteor, not the watch-fire, or the storm ? 
The warrior's deed, the poet's strain. 
The statesman's anxious toil, the patriot's sufferings 
vain. 

For this did Louis lay, 

In Gallia's sinful day. 
On the red altar his anointed head ? 

For this did Nelson pour, 

In Britain's glorious hour. 
More precious blood than Britain e'er had shed ? 
And did their winged thoughts aspire, 
Even in the parting soul's prophetic trance, no higher? 

Ye tenants of the grave. 

Whom unseen wisdom gave 
To watch the shapeless mist o'er earth extending 

Yet will'd to snatch away 

Before the appointed day 
Of light renew'd, and clouds and darkness ending, 

Oh, might ye now permitted rise, 
Cast o'er this wondrous scene your unobstructed eyes, 



ODE ON THE DELIVERANCE OF EUROPE. 371 

And say, O thou, whose might. 

Bulwark of England's right, 
Stood forth, the might of Chatham's lordly son ; 

Thou " on whose burning tongue 

Truth, peace, and freedom hung," 
When freedom's ebbing sand almost had run, 

To the deliver'd world declare 
That each hath seen fulfill'd his latest, earliest prayer. 

Rejoice, kings of the earth ! 
But with a temperate mirth ; 
The trophies ye have won, the wreathes ye wear — 
Power with his red right hand, 
And empire's despot brand. 
Had ne'er achieved these proud rewards ye bear ; 
But, in one general cause combined. 
The people's vigorous arm, the monarch's constant mind. 

Yet that untired by toil, 
Unsway'd by lust of spoil. 
Unmoved by fear, or soft desire of rest. 
Ye kept your onward course 
With unremitted force, 
And to the distant goal united press'd ; 
The soldier's bed, the soldier's fare, 
His dangers, wants, and toils, alike resolved to share. 

And more — that when at length, 
Exulting in our strength, 
In tyranny o'erthrown, and victory won. 
Before you lowly laid, 
Your dancing eyes survey 'd 
The prostrate form of humbled Babylon, 
Ye cried, " Enough I " — and at the word 
Vengeance put out her torch, and slaughter sheath'd 
his sword — 



372 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Princes, be this your praise 
And ne'er in after days 
Let faction rude that spotless praise profane, 
Or dare with license bold 
The impious falsehood hold, 
That Europe's genuine kings have ceased to reign. 
And that a weak adulterate race, 
Degenerate from their sires, pollutes high honour's 
place. 

Breathe, breathe again, ye free, 

The air of liberty. 
The native air of wisdom, virtue, joy ! 

And, might ye know to keep 

The golden wealth ye reap, 
Not thrice ten years of terror and annoy, 

Of mad destructive anarchy. 
And pitiless oppression, were a price too high. 

Vaulting ambition ! 

Thy bloody laurels torn, 
And ravish'd from thy grasp the sin-bought prize ; 

Or, if thy meteor fame 

Still win the world's acclaim, 
Let it behold thee now with alter'd eyes. 

And pass, but with a pitying smile, 
The hope-abandon'd chief of Elba's lonely isle. 



Marie Loimsf.. 
From an engraving by F. \V. Zollinger, after Monsorno (\'ienna, iSi.w 

T. B, Schiavoiietti, Berlin (no date). 



MARIE LOUISE. 

The conduct of Marie Louise at the time of Napoleon's 
downfall was everything but creditable to her. The stand 
she should have taken was to have insisted that she be 
allowed to accompany him to Elba. But such a thought 
never entered her head, seriously, and it would seem that 
she lost all further interest or concern in her late royal 
consort the moment he ceased to be Emperor of France. 
She certainly proved by her course of life, immediately 
upon Napoleon's banishment, that she had no love for 
him, and that she was utterly indifferent to any disgrace 
she might cast upon his name, or to any loss of her own 
personal reputation, for we find her the mother of chil- 
dren by an Austrian prince, himself a reputed natural 
child, even before her husband's death, and we find her 
marrying that same prince, morganatically, as soon as she 
could do so without committing the crime of bigamy. 
Napoleon had thought to strengthen his own position 
when he married the Austrian archduchess, and Marie 
Louise had been willing enough to fancy she could love 
him — the mightiest ruler in the world. Both were mis- 
taken, and the fate of the one was not more sad than that 
of the other. 

MARIE LOUISE. 



Anon. 



Who journeys thus onward, 
Light-hearted and gay. 

As if to a triumph 

She passed on her way ? 

373 



374 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

No exile, most surely — 
Not thus do they come, 

Who are leaving behind them 
A heart and a home. 

Can she go so lightly, 

And joyously back. 
Who went to her bridal 

So late o'er this track? 
Could she smile as when hastening 

To welcoming arms, 
If shut from the circle 

Of home and its charms ? 

Oh, matchless in beauty, 

And kingly in line ! 
No heart of a woman 

Can surely be thine : 
Else wouldst thou, this moment, 

Thy husband uncrowned. 
Weep in sackcloth and ashes. 

And sit on the ground. 

Is this, proud Napoleon, 

The pride of thy home ? 
Can this be thy mother, 

O pale King of Rome ? 
Alas ! we may mourn thee, 

But pity who can, 
More fickle than woman. 

And falser than man. 

It was well that the exile, 

Shut in by the sea. 
Still might solace his anguish 

By memory of thee — 



MARIE LOUISE. 375 

Still could keep through all suffering, 

Of body and mind, 
One blest spot in memory 

Where thou wert enshrined ; 

Trusting on in a faith 

Which no time could remove, 
In the strength of thy virtue. 

And depth of thy love ; 
For his heart, but for this, 

In its hardness had been 
As the rocks of the ocean 

That girdled him in. 

Oh regally wedded, 

And regally born ! 
Not thy state nor thy beauty 

Can save thee from scorn ; 
And more deeply we mourn thee. 

Content in thy home. 
Than the Emperor exiled, 

Or dead King of Rome. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON. 

When Byron wrote his Ode to Napoleon he Httle 
thought that Waterloo and St. Helena were still to 
come ; that France had yet to suffer more terribly than 
she had before she would finally consent to give up her 
idol. The judgment pronounced by Byron upon the 
great Corsican agreed with that of all contemporary Eng- 
lish writers ; but it is safe to say that if this same poet 
were writing upon the same subject to-day he would 
judge him in a far more favourable light. It has taken 
nearly a century of study to place this wonderful char- 
acter, and it is only now that the true history of Napo- 
leon is beginning to be known. Byron was a lover of 
glory and of military greatness, but his English blood 
would not allow him to do justice to the man who should 
have been his model. 

ODE TO NAPOLEON. 

Lord Byron. 

'T is done — but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing ; 

So abject — yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
Who strew'd our hearth with hostile bones. 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
376 



ODE TO NAPOLEON. 377 

Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd — power to save, — 
Thine only gift hath been the grave 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition 's less than littleness ! 

Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 

The after-warriors more 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preach'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again, 

That led them to adore 
Those Pagod things of sabre sway 
With fronts of brass, and feet of cla}-. 

The triumph and the vanity. 

The rapture of the strife — 
The earthquake voice of Victory, 

To thee the breath of life ; 
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
Which man seem'd made but to obey, 

Wherewith renown was rife — 
All quell'd — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
The madness of thy memory ! 

The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of other's fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 



378 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Is it some yet imperial hope 

That with such change can cahnly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He who of old would rend the oak, 
Dream'd not of the rebound ; 

Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke — 
Alone — how look'd he round ? 

Thou, in the sternness of thy strength. 

An equal deed hast done at length. 
And darker fate hast found ! 

He fell the forest prowler's prey ; 

But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman, when his burning heart 

Was slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 

Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries away. 

An empire for a cell ; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds, 

His dotage trifled well: 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON. 2)79 

Rut thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ! 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! may we hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hast died as honour dies. 
Some new Napoleon might arise. 

To shame the world again — 
But who could soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales. Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 



380 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay ; 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she, too, bend — must she, too, share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ! 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
Or trace with thine all idle' hand. 
In loitering mood upon the sand. 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou, Timour ! in his captive's cage 
What thoughts will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? 
But one — " The world was mine! " 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long confine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 



ODE TO NAPOLEON. 38 1 

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock? 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not the worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
He, in his fall preserved his pride. 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 



THE TWO GRENADIERS. 

The rank and file of the army remained true to Napo- 
leon, even after he had been betrayed and deserted by the 
officers who had risen from among their number to high 
positions of trust and honour. The Old Guard, as a body, 
would gladly have accompanied their chief to Elba had 
they been permitted to do so. It was from the ranks 
Napoleon himself had sprung ; it was the old soldiers who 
had made it possible for marshals, dukes, and princes to 
blazon with the reflected splendour and glory of the Con- 
sulate and the Empire, and now, they were the only ones 
who could not forget. They were loyal to the man who 
had been loyal to them ; the man they adored ; the man 
who had performed such wonders, through them, for 
France. 

THE TWO GRENADIERS. 
(April, 1814.) 

Jean Pierre de Beranger. 

[The reader will remember that the first abdication of 
Napoleon took place at Fontainebleau, at the date above 
mentioned. In calling Glory the godmother, and the 
Emperor the godfather of his Marshals, the poet alludes 
to the fact, that nearly all of them bore in their titles the 
names of the respective battle-fields, whereon they had dis- 
tinguished themselves.] 

First Grenadier. 

Our post has been forgotten in the rounds ; 
Richard, hark ! midnight at the palace sounds. 
3S2 



THE TWO GRENADIERS. 383 

\ 

Second Grenadier. 

Once more we turn to Italy our view ; 

For, with to-morrow, Fontainebleau, adieu ! 



First Grenadier. 

By Heaven I swear, and thank it too the while, 
'T is a fair climate blesses Elba's isle. 

Second Grenadier. 

Were it far distant, deep in Russia's snow, 
Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 

Together. 
Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go! 

Second Grenadier. 

How quick they came, the fights we failed to win ! 
Where now are Moscow, Wilna, and Berlin ? 
Again the flames, that wrapped the Kremlin, seem 
Bright on our serried bayonets to gleam ; 
And Paris given up, through traitors lost, 
Paris itself has scarce one battle cost ! 
Our cartouch-boxes were not empty — no ! 
Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 

First Grenadier. 

On every side, " He abdicates," I hear: 

Comrade, what's that? pray make the meaning clear. 

Our old Republic seek they to restore ? 



384 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Second Grenadier. 

No ! for they bring us back a king once more, 
The Emperor's crowns a hundred-fold might shine ; 
I can conceive that he would all resign : 
As alms, his hand of old would crowns bestow ! 
Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 

First Grenadier. 

The palace windows are but dull to-night ; 
Look there 's one faint and solitary light. 

Second Grenadier. 

Yes ! for the valets, nobly born and bred. 
Hiding their noses in their cloaks, have fled : 
All, stripping off the lace from their costumes. 
Prompt to dispose of the dead eagle's plumes. 
To the new chieftain of the State bend low. 
Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 

First Grenadier. 

The Marshals too, our comrades once of old. 

They have deserted, now they 're gorged with gold. 

Second Grenadier. 

To buy their grades successively, we bled : 
Joy, that we 've still some drops of blood to shed ! 
What ! their godmother Glory's self became, 
On field of battle giving each his name ; 
Yet their god-father thus aside they throw ! 
Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 



THE TWO GRENADIERS. 38 = 

First Grenadier. 

In service five and twenty years I 've past, 
And meant my furlough to have begged at last. 

Second Grenadier. 

And I, all seamed with scars, felt some desire 

From our old colours also to retire ; 

But after drinking all the liquor up, 

'T was base ingratitude to break the cup ! 

Farewell, wife, children, country ! be it so ! 

Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 

Together. 

Old grenadiers, let us with an old soldier go ! 



JOSEPHINE. 

Josephine would gladly have shared Napoleon's exile 
at Elba had he permitted her to do so. There can be no 
doubt that for many years before her death Josephine 
loved the Emperor, and was to him a devoted and a loyal 
wife. In the early days of their marriage and up to the 
time of his return from Egypt, her conduct was not such 
as his fiery and passionate nature could well submit to. 
Whether all the rumours that were then circulated about 
her were true or not is not within our province to settle. 
She was, in more than one sense, a noble woman and 
the one, above all others, to fill the difficult position she 
was called upon to occupy. Her tact was wonderful, and 
she could often successfully manage her imperious hus- 
band when it was hopeless for any one else to undertake 
the task. Many a pardon did this fair suppliant obtain, 
merely by the force of her own loveliness and her supe- 
rior wisdom in knowing how and when to approach the 
throne. Generous and extravagant to a fault, she re- 
ceived many a scolding for her kindness to others and for 
her lavish use of money upon herself. She was naturally 
a royalist, and Napoleon, had he acceded to her wishes, 
would never have assumed the crown. He would have 
restored the King, and to have been the wife of the High 
Constable of France would have pleased Josephine better 
336 



The Empress Joskphink. 
From an engraving by Dean, after an original miniature. 

I -ondon , 1 8 '? I 



JOSEPHINE, 387 

than being Empress. After the divorce Josephine lived 
at Mahnaison, and there, within a month after Napoleon's 
departure for Elba, she died. The prophecy of the old 
negress at Martinique had come to pass in its comple- 
tion ; the end had come as it had been foretold. 

Josephine. 

Rev. Joseph II. Nichols. 

'T is evening, on a purple southern sea : 
The large thick stars, in tropic purity, 
Are flashing from the blue, unbending skies. 
On a lone isle, that green beneath them lies. 
Out in full blossom shine the orange groves. 
And lo ! amid their bowers a maiden roves — 
A fair, West Indian girl ; then takes her seat 
To breathe the fragrance of those flowers so sweet. 
She touches her guitar, and with a strain 
Of superhuman softness, doth enchain 
The winds in silence : smiling in their sleep, 
Repose the murmuring billows of the deep. 
To join her, soon comes forth a virgin band 
Of her companions, tripping hand in hand. 
A slave strikes up the tabourine, and she 
Floats in the dance to some wild island glee ; 
In peerless elegance that maid moves on, 
Of all her sex, in grace the paragon. 
Her dark eye kindles with imperial light. 
A golden crown is glittering in her sight. 
For some gray prophetess foretold, ere now, 
A diadem should decorate her brow. 

Again, broad daylight sheds its sunny smile 
Within a tall cathedral's ancient pile ; 



388 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Along the aisles, brave men, line after line, 

Beneath their banners in bright armour shine ; 

The galleries gleam with beauty's jewelled forms. 

And warlike music every bosom warms. 

It ceases : all direct their anxious gaze 

To the high altar, where, amid the blaze 

Of princesses and princes, stand alone 

A man and woman, each before a throne : 

He, the stern chief, whose footsteps shook the globe ; 

She, in that long and royal crimson robe. 

Is that same fair West Indian. One rich crown 

He puts on his own brow ; then, she kneels down, 

And modestly, from his small hand receives 

Another crown — a wreath of golden leaves, 

Upon her forehead ; while his eagle glance, 

Reflecting hers, proclaims her Queen of France. 

The trumpet peals it forth in joyous swells, 

And far as her green isle the tidings tell. 

Again, in Malmaison, that lady 's seen, 
A wife, yet no wife ; a queen, yet not a queen. 
If nature's charms could ever banish grief. 
The heaviest bosom there might find relief : 
The garden blooms, the fountain flows in vain ; 
Not Eden's scenery could assuage her pain. 
He, who his greatness owed to her alone. 
Has called another bride to share his throne ! 
Discarded, she loves still, and woman's tears 
She sheds, when of her hero's fall she hears. 
Too sharp the trial ! Pensive, day by day, 
She sits, and pines, at last, her life away. 
Now cold, and closed in death's meek sleep her eyes, 
Pale on her bier, the lovely Empress lies ! 
White as her shroud, her crossed hands calmly rest 
Upon that generous and confiding breast. 



JOSEPHINE. 3 89 

There, her lone orphans love's last vigil keep, 
And earth's great kings pass by, and muse and weep, 
Oh, what young maiden here would be a queen, 
Who thinks of thy sad fate, poor Josephine ! 
Who would not rather, than of courts the pride. 
Be gathering berries on the mountain side ? 



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

The rejoicing was almost universal in the Uniten States 
when the news came that the Emperor of France had 
been driven from his country and that the Bourbons were 
again in power. The success of the American Revolu- 
tion and the freedom from tyranny gained thereby were, 
in a great measure, the forerunners of the French Revo- 
lution ; from which came the Consulate and the Empire, 
with Napoleon as their recognised head. He was not the 
true product of a revolution based on an American idea 
of liberty, and, consequently, the verdict in this country, 
at that time, was against him. Since then, however, this 
wonderful man has been diligently studied by American 
historians, and, as he has become better known, senti- 
ment has changed concerning him ; until to-day he has 
friends and admirers in this country, second in number 
only to those in France. 

The following ode was written by L. M. Sargent, Esq., 
and read at a religious service held at the Stone Chapel 
in Boston, in 1814, "in commemoration of the goodness 
of God in delivering the Christian world from Military 
Despotism " ; the occasion being the downfall of Napo- 
leon and his exile to Elba. 

390 



NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 39I 

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 

L. M. Sargent. 

Where turn the tyrant's myrmidons 

Their deadly dark array ? 
Where seek they hiurels dyed in blood 

To crown his brows to-day ? 
What tide of widow's tears shall fl<nv 

For those who fight no more. 
Lying slain, on the plain 

Where the smoky volumes pour, 
Where slaughter rides the battle blast 

And bids her thunders roar? 

France ! at the throne eternal 

Of great Jehovah bow! 
For Heaven's avenging thunderbolt 

Has laid the tyrant low ; 
The bloody, baleful star shall guide 

The monster's way no more, 
Where the slain on the plain 

Lie weltering in their gore, 
And through a thousand, thousand streams 

Life's ebbing torrents pour. 

What though on glory's record 

The wretch his name enroll, 
The bitter tears of orphan France 

Shall wash it from the scroll, 
Her widows in the despot's ears 

An endless dirge shall pour ; 
And throw round his brow. 

Where laurels late he wore, 
A wreath of deadly nightshade wrought 

Steeped in their husband's gore. 



392 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

O'er the tomb of hapless Bourbon 

Be mournful honours paid, 
Go, loyal maids of France, and weep 

Where Antoinette is laid, 
Where the tyrant's hemlock withered 

And fleur de lis shall blow, 
And the brave round the grave 

Bid their manly sorrow flow, 
While the spirit of true loyalty 

Shall in their bosoms glow. 

The hand of Heaven, whose vengeance 

Is 'gainst the despot hurled. 
To France her rightful king restored 

And freedom to the world ; 
Hosannas to the King of kings 

Let Freedom's voice bestow. 
Again raise the strain 

Till the patriot's heart shall glow, 
And Heaven on high approves the song 

Of grateful man below. 



PETITION. 

Napoleon was no sooner landed at Elba than the 
horde of sycophants, who had fawned at his feet when he 
had wealth and position at his disposal, hastened to 
grovel in the dust before Louis XVIII. , now that he was 
the one in power. These people were the same who 
had deserted Louis XVI. in his time of need and had 
cowardly fled their country to escape the scaffold, and 
who, afterwards, had plotted the death of Napoleon and 
the overthrow of his government. These were the men 
Napoleon had forgiven, and recalled from exile to ad- 
vance from one position of trust and confidence to an- 
other, until, loaded with wealth, they were able to strut 
about in all their old-time glory. Honour was an un- 
known word with them. They would cringe to-day and 
bite to-morrow. In a few short months this same ignoble 
crowd would be tumbling over each other in their mad 
haste to show their servility to the man they now thought 
it safe to sneer at and despise. 

PETITION 

FOR FREE ENTRANCE INTO THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES. 

PRESENTED BY THE DOGS OF QUALITY. 

(June, 1 814.) 

Jean Pierre de Beranger. 

[One of the numberless satires, that were caused by the 
sudden reappearance of many members of the old noblesse 
of France, immediately after the fall of Napoleon.] 

Let your Chamberlain, please you, decree 
That to-morrow we dogs may obtain 

393 



394 -^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Entrance into the Tuileries, free — 

We who 're from the St. Faubourg Germain. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant *s laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

'T is our collar our difference shows 

From the dogs who the pavement frequent ; 
For such vulgar plebeians as those 

Royal honours could never be meant. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

Though as long as we bowed to his yoke, 

The usurper aye drove us away, 
When a host of importunate folk 

Would be barking — we never said nay ! 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

Of his reign should you memoirs indite. 

Be not hard on some changeable brutes, 
Who to-day at his heels snap and bite. 

Though for years they were licking his boots. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

Tiny spaniels, and terriers mean, 

Something better than fleas having met, 
Fawn on Russians and Germans, I ween. 

Who with blood, that is French, are still wet. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

What if, sure her vast profits to net, 
England boast of her victories high ; 



PETITION. 395 

Lumps of sugar again we can get, 
And the cats lick the coffee-cups dry. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

Since our dames in such haste retrograde. 

As their pinners and lappets will show ; 
Since again holy water is made, 
Pray, replace us in our statu quo. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 

We agree in return for his grace, 

All except a few scrupulous poodles. 
That we '11 fawn on the holders of place, 
That we '11 bite all unfortunate noodles. 
Now we are sure that the tyrant 's laid low, 
Hinder us not ; we would frolicking go. 



THE ISLAND FIEND. 

Napoleon remained at Elba a little over nine months. 
At first he seemed perfectly content with his lot. He 
planned and worked, with his accustomed energy, to bet- 
ter the condition of his small kingdom. With his mother 
and his sister Pauline he settled down into a life which 
promised to be one of real good to all concerned. He 
took it for granted that France no longer wanted him, 
and had the treaty of Paris been faithfully carried out, 
and had the Revolution taught Louis XVIII. how to deal 
with his subjects, Waterloo might have been avoided. 
But soon rumours of discontent at home reached his ears ; 
the annuity awarded him in the treaty he did not re- 
ceive ; his own private resources were drawn upon until 
almost exhausted, and he was compelled to stop the 
improvements he had already commenced, and also to re- 
trench his personal expenses ; the English writers contin- 
ued to worry and harass him with their vile slanders ; 
and the English Government began to talk of removing 
him from Elba to a safer place, and one farther away from 
France. Is it strange that he began to listen to the hints 
given him that his return was the only possible solution 
to the problem staring him in the face, and that if he did 
not move in that direction a worse fate than the one he 
was enduring would soon be his ? 

The following is but one of the innumerable scurrilous 
productions of the English pen, published while Napoleon 
was virtually in prison, disarmed, and helpless. 
396 



THE ISLAND FIEND. 397 

THE ISLAND FIEND. 



To the island of Elba a demon has flown, 

The horror and scourge of mankind ; 
As hard as the iron, and cold as the stone, 
Which in Elba's dark mines and her quarries are known, 

Is his heart to all evil inclin'd. 

The agent of Mischief to torture the world, 

His brows with a diadem bound ; 
But the genius of Virtue her standard unfurl'd. 
And his sons thronging round from his pinnacle hurl'd, 

And struck the foul fiend to the ground. 

Condemn'd in this island imprison'd to sigh. 

His passion for mischief prevails ; 
When the wind whistles loud, and the wave rises high, 
He lists to the sound of the mariner's cry, 

And smiles at the storm-shatter'd sails. 

Though the race of mankind are no longer his prey, 

Still cruelties pleasure supply ; 
The generous dog must the tyrant obey, 
He plucks from the dove her soft plumage away, 

And, Domitian-like, tortures the fly. 

And yet he has moments of horror and fright. 

For demons will tremble and fear, 
When the shadows of Pichegru, Palm, D'Enghien, Wright, 
Appear in the darkness and stillness of night. 

And his eye sheds the cowardly tear. 

Hope, the wretch's last friend, from his bosom has fled, 
The fiend looks despairing around ; 



39^ A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Wherever he Hes, or wherever he treads, 
Plants noxious to life rear their poisonous heads, 
And venomous reptiles are found. 

Here unpitied, unwept, till the final decree, 

Let the blood-sated demon remain ; 
In vain from himself still attempting to flee. 
That he tastes not of death let his punishment be, 
And his conscience his torturing pain. 



THE POLISH LANCERS. 

Whether at the beginning of the year 1815 there 
was an actual conspiracy in France, having for its object 
the return of Napoleon, and numbering among its mem- 
bers Hortense, in Paris, and Pauline, at Elba, is not ma- 
terial to our purpose. It is a fact that at that time the 
people of France, and the old soldiers, especially, were 
calling in subdued, but unmistakable tones for the return 
of their beloved Emperor. The new order of things was 
not at all to their liking. Their country had been cut up 
and divided among the Allies ;the Old Guard had been 
disbanded and mercenary Swiss soldiers filled the places 
of honour around the throne. The old warriors who had 
won for France such renowned glory upon so many fields 
of battle were not accustomed to being pushed into the 
back-ground as mere hirelings of the state, and they be- 
gan to grumble at the usage they received, and in order 
to conceal their feelings as much as possible from the 
government, they met at their clubs and the cafes and 
talked and sang about the "Little Corporal" and the 
glorious victories they had won under him. Among these 
old soldiers none stood more firm for Napoleon, or more 
ready to answer his every call, than did the Polish Lancers 
who had served him so long and so faithfully. 

The following is one of the most popular songs sung 
399 



400 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

immediately before the return of Napoleon from Elba. 
It was often sung at the Cafe Montansier in the Palais 
Royal, where the half-pay officers looking for service met 
nightly with the officers of the famous regiment of Polish 
Lancers. 

THE POLISH LANXERS. 



Anon. 



In Scandinavia's region chill, 

Resounded loud the hero's name ; 
Poland enslaved, own'd glory's thrill, 

And for Napoleon woke — and fame : 
Their cruel shackles he destroy'd, 

Gaul's friend no longer pined a slave, 
And France amidst her ranks o'erjo)''d, 

Enroll'd the Polish Lancers brave. 

Without regret these sons of war, 

For great Napoleon distant strove; 
And in Iberian wilds afar 

An harvest rich of laurels wove. 
Where'er of honour rang the sound, 

They flew the meed of fame to crave : 
And glory faithful still was found, 

Enlink'd with the Polish Lancers brave. 

When fortune in her wiles array'd, 

When treason low'r'd in darkling state, 
Combined ; the courage thus betray'd 

Of Gallia's pride — Napoleon great — 
As yielding up his arms with sighs. 

He bade farewell in accents grave ; 
Tears then were seen to dew the eyes, 

Of Poland's feeling Lancers biave. 



THE POLISH LANCERS. 4OI 

'T was then with anguish quite o'ercome, 

Napoleon cried — subdued by pain ; 
" Rejoin once more your cherish'd home, 

Your oaths I yield ye back again." 
He thought when on the exile's ground, 

Save Frenchmen none would stem the wave ; 
But in his dreary isle he found, 

A band of Polish Lancers brave. 

O ye whom glory caused to share 

The trophies of an happier liour ! 
Just Heaven to Poles extend thy care, 

Enshield their fate with fostering power : 
But if assail'd by dread alarms, 

Friends, we shall ne'er forget to save 
Our gallant brothers join'd in arms, 

The faithful Polish Lancers brave. 



NAPOLEON AT MELUN. 

On the twenty-sixth of February, 1815, Napoleon, with 
less than one thousand men, set out from Elba upon one 
of the most daring enterprises ever undertaken by man. 
He was about to essay the task of regaining the throne, 
so long and so gloriously held by him, and from which 
he had so lately been expelled by a combination of 
treachery and brute force. He was about to try once 
more his strength against combined Europe with over 
two millions of armed men ready to take the field against 
him. From his old soldiers he had nothing to fear and 
everything to hope for, and it was upon them he placed 
his main reliance for success. On the first of March he 
landed with his little army upon the shores of France at 
nearly the same spot where he had landed sixteen years 
before on his return from Egypt. The march towards 
Paris was at once begun and every step of the way proved 
an ovation, equal to what it would have been in the palm- 
iest days of the Empire had Napoleon been out on a 
journey of pleasure. His reception at Grenoble, his 
meeting with Marshal Ney, and many other incidents on 
the road, seem more like romance than history. Not a 
shot was fired ; not a drop of blood shed. The lilies were 
thrown aside and the tri-colors everywhere displayed. 
Louis XVHL and the Bourbon princes fled in terror as 
402 



NAPOLEON AT MELUN. 403 

the rapidly growing arm)- advanced. At P'ontainebleau 
the Emperor took a short rest. Half-way between that 
place and Paris the Bourbons made their last effort to 
stop the triumphant march of the outlawed Corsican. 
An army of one hundred thousand men commanded by 
the Duke de Berri lay encamped at Melun. What took 
place as Napoleon drew near this mighty host is told by 
Sir Walter Scott as follows : " The glades of the forest, 
presenting the appearance of a deep solitude, were full in 
vaew of the royal army. At length the galloping of horse 
was heard, and an open carriage approached, surrounded 
by a few hussars, and drawn by four horses. It came on 
at full speed, and Napoleon, jumping from his vehicle, 
was in the midst of the ranks that had been sent to op- 
pose him. There was a general shout of ' Vive Napo- 
leon ! ' The last army of the Bourbons passed from their 
side, and there existed no farther obstruction between 
Napoleon and the capital." 

NAPOLEON AT MELUN. 

Sarah Rebecca Barnes. 

In all thy long career of pride, of glory, and of power. 
Of triumph and of victory — oh, name thy proudest hour! 
That hour which o'er thy future course the rosiest prom^ 

ise threw, 
Which from the past no omen ill or inauspicious drew. 

Was it when on red Lodi's field, unshrinking, undismayed, 
Defying death and dangers, thou that pass of peril made? 
Or when, her ancient glory dim, her winged lion low, 
Inglorious Venice shrank aghast and fell without a blow ? 



404 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Queen of the Adriatic ! — thou still lingerest round the 
heart, 

Awakening dreams of other days, unworthy as thou art ; 

Romance hath cast her spell o'er thee in gorgeous memo- 
ries dyed. 

And the hour that saw thee in the dust was not an hour 
of pride. 

Was it when like a " flaxen band," proud Austria's power 

was rent, 
And o'er her flying myriads thou thy glance of triumph 

sent ? 
When from her ancient capital abandoned to thy power. 
Thy shouts of victory went up — was that thy proudest 

hour ? 

Was it when Russia's giant force in terror and dismay, 
Upon the field of Austerlitz before thee prostrate lay ? 
•That " Battle of the Emperors," with glorious memories 

rife. 
So cherished mid each after-scene of thy eventful life ? 

Or when at thy sublimest height of conquest and renown, 
Was placed upon thy laurelled brow the Lombard's iron 

crown ? 
The iron crown of Charlemagne — a symbol of the power 
That countless thousands humbly owned ; was that thy 

proudest hour ? 

Perchance upon thine inmost soul prophetic whisperings 

came, 
Of the insecurity of thrones, the heartlessness of fame. 
Perchance upon thy spirit then dark visions floated past. 
To mar the triumph of that hour, its radiant promise 

blast. 



NAPOLEON AT MELUN. 405 

If so, none knew: unwise it were to waken dark distrust ; 
But lo ! upon the wildered eye what bridal pageants 

burst ! 
Imperial Hapsburgh ! fated still to feel thine iron thrall, 
Thou hero of an hundred fights, and victor in them all ! 
So reckless of another's claim, by mad ambition led, 
Where slept the thunder? why forbore the bolt that 

should have sped 
To rive that red right hand, before the altar pledged to 

thee, 
Imperial victim ! offered up mid mirth and revelry ? 

But why, when every breath bespeaks the triumph hour 

of mirth, 
Why is it mid this festal scene that darker thoughts have 

birth ? 
What curse is brooding in the air ? What shadow passing 

by? 
What demon is abroad to mar this hour's festivity ? 

There 's restlessness within that eye, repress it as thou 

wilt ; 
A deepening hectic on that cheek, it is the flush of guilt I 
For memory of that injured one is with thee even now, 
And crime is deepening at thy heart and darkening o'er 

thy brow. 

A fearful vision, undefined, thy very spirit stirs, 

That doom is on thee, long foretold, thy star declines with 

hers ! 
" Spoilt child of fortune ! " — fated still, and formed to 

move the heart ; 
So glorious as thou might'st have been I so guilty as thou 

art! 



406 A METRICAL HIS TORY OF NAPOLEON. 

A change was wrought — a mighty change ; of all thy con- 
quests vast, 

The memory alone remained, thy day of empire past. 

An exile in a lonely isle, yet still unshrinking shone 

That spirit which no change could quell, that greatness 
all thine own. 

Another change : thy footsteps press once more the soil 

of France, 
And despots madden at the thouglit, and bid their hosts 

advance. 
Alone thou comest ; hostile bands meet thy unstartled 

view, 
The soldier's eye has caught thy form ! The soldier's 

heart is true ! 

At once from countless numbers poured, a deafening shout 

arose, 
And ranks on ranks prolonged the sound ; thy foes ! where 

are thy foes ? 
Like wreath of morning mist before the sun's triumphant 

ray, 
The Bourbon saw his power decline, his legions pass away ! 

And thou — not in thy proudest day (^f triumpli and re- 
nown. 

When kings became thy suppliants, and thanked thee for 
a crown ! 

When earth to her remotest bounds thine influence felt 
and owned. 

And thou thy mandates issued forth in regal splendour 
throned — 

Not then ! not then thine hour of pride, though millions 
owned thy sway ; 



NAPOLEON AT MELUM. 407 

There waited on thy destiny a more triumphant day. 
That day on which a fugitive, where all was once thine 

own, 
A nation's voice with one accord recalled thee to a 

throne ! 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 

From Melun to Paris the journey was as one grand holi- 
day parade. The Emperor was received at the capital 
with a welcome and an enthusiasm undescribable. Borne 
aloft, literally, upon the shoulders of his frantic admirers, 
he entered the Tuileries as no ruler had ever entered that 
palace. The Bourbons had scarcely gotten their house 
settled ere they were compelled to flee in order to make 
room for the man so loudly called for by the army and 
the people. In twenty days Napoleon had travelled seven 
hundred miles through the very heart of France, and at 
no place, from the coast to the gates of Paris, had he met 
with any but the most emphatic and pronounced marks 
of love and admiration. The old soldiers, certainly, were 
honest in their protestations of fidelity, and the people, at 
least, thought they were expressing their true sentiments. 
The army proved its devotion by dying for its beloved 
chief ; the people proved theirs by welcoming the Allies 
and the Bourbons back to Paris with loud acclaim and with 
open arms, while Napoleon, beaten and humiliated, was 
on his way to St. Helena. 

The following poem, although written by an English- 
man, gives a vivid, an amusing, and an historical descrip- 
tion of how the news of Napoleon's escape from Elba 
was received in London and in Paris ; how the journey 
408 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 4O9 

from the coast to the capital was made, and how the 
Emperor was received at the Tuileries. Pindar's style of 
writing is too well known to the English reader to need 
an introduction. He spares neither friend nor foe in get- 
ting at the point he wishes to make, and yet, beneath the 
levity and the satire, there is generally found some object 
worthy of thought and reflection ; some good advice, 
which, if followed, would make mankind better. 

BONAPARTE IN PARIS ! OR THE FLIGHT OF THE 
BOURBONS ! 

A Poem, by Peter Pindar, Esq. 

Dr. John Wolcot. 

Napoleon, lo ! has broke his chain, 
And boldly stalks in France again, 
With lofty crest he breathes defiance, 
A furious tiger, joined by Lyons ! 

Louis, thy fate is hard, I own, 
What plagues assail thy short-liv'd throne ! 
Worse ne'er tormented king, I doubt, 
Than Bonaparte and the gout. 

Does then a low-born Corsican 

Make Bourbon's Heir his warming-pan ; 

A little while his place to fill. 

Till he resumes it at his will ; 

Shall he a Royal Sov'reign knock 
About, just like a shuttle-cock? 
One blow sends him, full drive, to France, 
The next to England makes him dance. 



410 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Was it for this, in splendid show, 

Our R 1 went, some time ago, 

With footmen, pages, gallant forces, 
State carriage, and cream-colour'd horses; 

To bring him safe to London, where 
Great Louis own'd his princely care, 
Vow'd he through life would ne'er forget 
How great to Britain was his debt ; — 

As he, to make no longer stay, meant, 
He gave an order, too, for payment, 
(Our pious Regent's pride and boast), 
The Order of the Holy Ghost ! 

For this, such mobbing and huzzaing. 
Such beauty, rank, and joy displaying ? 
For this, such feasting and parading, 
Such shouting and such white-cockading ? 

For this, did vessels of the line. 

Give battle on the Serpentine? 

For this, did crackers, squibs, and rockets. 

Amuse our eyes and fleece our pockets ? 

For this, did Sadler mount the sky. 
And temples lift their heads on high ? 
For this, were fairs and revels had, 
To make the people drunk and mad 'f 

For this, — but I had best pursue 
My tale, so wonderful and new, 
Form'd to perpetuate my rhymes 
In British minds, to latest times. 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 4I I 

" Begone ! " said I, the other day, 
Unto the newsman, — " get away — 
No paper will I take, — depart ! 
I 'm weary, — I am sick at heart. 

" The Corn-Bill, it is sure will pass, 
Whoever doubts it is an ass ; 
Away ! I will not read their speeches. 
Of which, the substance, only teaches — 



"And, as to foreign politics. 
To kingly craft and courtly tricks ; 
To that great Congress, where of late, 
Monarchs and ministers of state, 

" With potent emperors assembl'd. 
At whose bare nod whole kingdoms trembl'd, 
Danc'd waltzes, din'd, and talk'd the news, 
And figur'd, too, at grand reviews, 

" How each pursues his bold design, 
Is his concern and none of mine ; 
I leave them to their strife and scrambles, 
And all their polished courtly gambols. 

" We know, the work of peace to crown. 
How they together sat them down ; 
And (droll comparison to make). 
All Europe, like a large twelfth cake, 

" At these grand Carvers' mercy laid. 
Was on the ample board display'd, 
To be cut up there and divided. 
Just as these mighty men decided. 



412 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" To work they went, at nothing stopping ; 
(jood lord ! what cutting and what chopping 
So greedy all, that, in the pother, 
They cut the fingers of each other. 

" Disputes their r 1 tempers nettle ; — 

They find it difficult to settle 

A point, that I confess was nice, — 

Which ought to have the largest slice ? 

" ' Coz, you have got the greatest share, 
Which I contend is quite unfair ; 
Cut off a piece and give it me.' 
' No ; I to that cannot agree : 

" * But, hark'ee ! my imperial brother. 
Here is a share own'd by another ; 
He is a poor defenceless elf, — 
I know he cannot help himself ; 

" ' I '11 give you his with all my heart ; 
Then you will have an equal part. 
Agreed ! * thus they hush up the broil, 
And socially divide the spoil. 

" But now the glorious work is done. 
By wisdom so profound begun ; 
The compact 's made secure and fast, 
That ages destin'd is to last : 



** In time of peace ? 't is more, I swear. 
Than mortal patience well can bear ! 
Since then abroad the Congress-fiat 
Has settled ev'rything so quiet. 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 413 

" And since, at home the Corn-Bill, fast. 
Against the nation's voice, is past, 
Let those inquire the news who will. 
My curiosity is still." — 

Twang went the horn ! "Confound that noise ! " 
I cried, in pet — " these plaguy boys 
Are at some tricks to sell their papers, 
Their blasts have given me the vapours ! " 

But all my senses soon were stranded 
At hearing, " Buonaparte landed ! " 
" Landed in France ! " so ran the strain. 
And " With eleven hundred men." 

" Ho, post ! " " Who calls ! " " This way." " I 'm 

coming ! " 
The public surely he is humming, 
Said I, " A paper — what 's the price ? " 
" A shilling." " Why that 's payment twice." 

" As cheap as dirt, your honour, quite ; 
They 've sold for half-a-crown to-night." 
" But is the news authentic, friend ? " 
" Ofishul, sir, you may depend — 

" TJic Currier, third edition." " So ! 
Well, take your money, boy, and go." 
Now for the news — by what strange blunder 
Has he escaped his bounds I wonder. 

There's some strange mystery in this ; 
Let 's see — " Escape."- — Oh, here it is. 
Now, curiosity to quench, 
" Escape — Escape from the King's Bench ! " 



414 ^ METRICAL JH STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

D — n the King's Bench — I 'm out of patience, 
Stay, here I see the proclamations — 
Pronounced a rebel, traitor — well, 
What this will end in, who can tell ? 



Who can describe the consternation, 
Alternate grief and trepidation, 
Emotions far too strong to hide, 
Which spread around on ev'ry side ? 

But chief at Paris now is seen 
Th' inquiring look, th' astonish'd mien ; 
The news, just like some potent charm, 
In ev'ry quarter spreads alarm. 

John Bull and family, to France 
Who 've had a most delightful dance, 
Are struck with panic, ev'ry one. 
And back to England, fain would run. 

Oh, what a crowd of rueful faces ! 

I really pity their sad cases, 

So full of gloomy apprehension, 

And fears beyond what I can mention. 

" Boney broke loose ! " is all the cry, 
" To Calais let us instant fly." 
For carriages they are all mad, 
And those can scarcely now be had. 

Away they scamper, high and low. 
Like children from a bugabo ; 
Run, Johnny, run, should Boney meet you. 
The cruel monster '11 kill and eat you ! 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 415 

" Boney is coming! Oh, the devil! 
Whoever dreamt of such an evil. 
They say — I shall expire with fright, — 
He will be here to-morrow night. 

" He '11 seize, and lock us up, I vow 
I think I see his John d'Armes now 
Coming to drive us and our friends. 
Like sheep, before them, into pens. 

" Come, let us pack up, and away. 
Whatever be the cost, I '11 pay. 
Buy my escape, that I am fixt on. 
E'en should I sell my house at Brixton." 

Such was John Bull's sad situation, 
By peril caught in Gallia's nation, 
Led thither by that gen'ral passion, 
Whose reign is like the dog-star's — fashion ! 



But where 's the pen that can reveal. 

What, L^ s, thou didst think and feel, 

When this dire information first 
A thunderbolt upon thee burst. 

The day had past, which was, I hear, 
A levee-day, when bishop, peer, 
And commoner, their homage pay 
To him who holds the regal sway. 



The day had past, as has been said ; 
The gaudy retinue had fled ; 



41 6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The mon — h now retirement sought, 
To give an hour to sober thought. 



" Mon Dieu ! " said he, " to be a king 
Is very much fatiguing thing! 
So much to sign, so much to hear,^ — 
'T is too much for my age to bear. 

" Now ministers in council chatter ; 

Now grand homme tell d d lie and flatter ; 

Now dis ; now dat ; well, I must still 
Endure it all for ma famille." 

Scarce had he spoke these words, when, lo ! 
His minister's announc'd below ; 
Soon usher'd up, — behold him stand, 
With his despatches in his hand : 

" O sire ! " he cried, as pale as death. 
Then stopp'd awhile to take some breath, 
" I come, your Majeste, to tell 
About dis terrible nouvelle! " 

" Nouvelle? some news?" The monarch cried, 
His ample mouth all gaping wide, 
" What news, my Lord, tell me, — dites moi ? " 
" Ce Bonaparte — Helas! mon Roi ! " — 

" Ha, Bonaparte ! " great L s said, — 

His eyes seem'd starting from his head ; 
One would hav^e thought, to mark his stare, 
The Corsican himself was there. 

Strange that a name could thus control, 
And petrify a monarch's soul : 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 417 

Whose name, beside ? An exile's, sent, 
Disgrac'd, to dwell in banishment, 

And dwindle out life's transient hour. 
Remote from courts and shorn of power ; 
Yet did this name of Bonaparte 
Strike terror to a Bourbon's heart. 

The K g, his shock somewhat abated, 

Occasion'd by a sound so hated, 
Cried, " He bien ? Dites moi — tell me, 
Ce coquin — rascal — where is he ? " 

" Begar, mon Roi, he land in France, 
And make to Paris, quick advance : " 
" He land in France? " " En verite." 
" Diable ! How he get away 

" From Elba, I much vish to know, 
Vere he vas sent some time ago 
By Fred'ric, Francis, Alexander, 
And all de oder great Commander?" 

" I don't know, sire, — Je ne scais pas ; 
But he land here — dat true — Helas ! 
And make terrible proclamation 
To all de people in de nation ; 

" Dere he abuse your Majeste, 
Say you no honnete — will no pay 
L'argent — de money — you agree 
To give him and his family. 

" So he come here to make de war 
In France, and pay himself, begar; 



4l8 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

He say vos princes be lazy dog, 
De C-ng — ss, too, be all dam rogue, 

" Who call him tief ; and den, for pelf, 
Dey all go and turn tief demself. 
And, for deir own accommodation, 
Rob, cheat, and plunder oder nation." 

I will not pause here to relate 
What great resources of the state 
On this occasion were employ'd. 
When bold invasion fierce annoy'd, 

Or tell how Parliament assembled, 
Where loyalty, most undissembled, 
Inspired the members every one — 
Where much was talk'd, and nothing done. 

Could speeches kill, full well we know 

They had slain Boney long ago. 

I sing not of the princely train 

Who march'd out, then march'd back again. 

I sing not of brave Marshal Ney, 
The Bourbons' last remaining stay. 
Who went th' invader to attack. 
Defeat, destroy, or drive him back, 

But scorn'd behaviour so uncivil : — 
While, rapid as the very devil. 
To Paris, Bonaparte inclin'd ; 
Ney, most politely, march'd behind. 

I sing not of the Melun-force, 

So sure to check the Emperor's course; 



BONAPARTE IN PARIS. 419 

But which, as had done all the others, 
Beheld his troops and hailed them brothers. 

The fact by none is now denied, 
That Bonaparte 's ta'en a ride — 
A sort of pleasurable excursion. 
As it would seem, for mere diversion — 

To Paris, whence, in sad affright, 
Poor hapless Louis wing'd his flight ; 
While now Napoleon, at his ease. 
Is seated in the Tuileries. 



THE HUNDRED DAYS. 

The advice given by Beranger to Napoleon, upon his 
return from Elba, coincided exactly with the Emperor's 
wishes and intentions. He sought only the good of 
France and that of his subjects. He no longer desired 
war, and he endeavoured in every possible way to avoid 
it. Immediately upon his arrival at the Tuileries, he noti- 
fied the sovereigns of Europe of his resumption of power, 
and declared his willingness to accept and abide by the 
terms of the Treaty of Paris. The only reply he received 
was a decree posting him as an outlaw, and granting per- 
mission, to anyone who chose to do so, to shoot him at 
pleasure. Had Napoleon been supported at this time 
by a united France, and with the same spirit and enthu- 
siasm which made him First Consul and then Emperor, 
war might have been avoided. Had he acted towards 
Louis XVHI. and the Bourbon family in the manner 
that the Allies and the Bourbons acted towards him, he 
would have seized the King and held him as a hostage 
until peace was assured. Instead of this justifiable course, 
he allowed the King to depart in safety, and he ordered 
the release of the Duke d'Angouleme after he had been 
taken prisoner with arms in his hands against him. Eng- 
land and the Allied Sovereigns would accept no peace at 
the hands of Napoleon, and they banded themselves to- 
420 



THE HUNDRED DAYS. 42 I 

gather by the most solemn oath, and swore never to sheath 
the sword until the " outlaw " was again driven from the 
throne of France. The world in arms was united against 
one man. Into the " Hundred Days" more history was 
crowded than in, perhaps, any other equal period of time 
since the world began. Between Elba and St. Helena, 
from one prison door to another, a mighty empire was 
won and lost. 

THE HUNDRED DAYS. 

Jean Pierre de Beranger. 
[In this admirable song, full of sound political advice, it 
is the Emperor Napoleon who is apostrophised, under the 
pleasant disguise of Liz.] 

O Liz, who reignest by the grace 
Of God, who makes us equal all. 

Thy matchless beauty holds a race 
Of rivals still in thrall. 

But vast as may thine empire be, 

Liz, in thy lovers Frenchmen see ; 

And at thy faults let us to jest be free, 
For thy subjects' sake ! 

How many belles, and princes, too, 

Love to abuse their sovereign strength ! 
What states, what lovers, not a few, 

Come to despair at length ! 
Dread lest, perchance, revolt some day 
To thy boudoir should find its way : 
Ah ! never, never, Liz, the tyrant play, 
For thy subjects' sake ! 

By too much coquetry beguiled, 

Women pursue the conqueror's aim, 

Who from his country far is wiled, 
A hundred tribes to tame. 



422 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON, 

A terrible coquette he seems : 
Oh ! follow not his empty dreams ; 
Nor cherish further, Liz, thy conquering schemes, 
For thy subjects' sake ! 

Thanks to the courtier's zeal, 't is harder 

A mighty monarch to come nigh 
Than Beauty's self, who has to guard her 

Some ever-jealous eye. 
But to thy couch, that peaceful throne 
Where Pleasure her decrees make known, 
Liz, let the way accessible be shown. 
For thy subjects' sake ! 

In vain a king would have us know, 

That, if he reign. Heaven wills his sway ; 

As, Liz, to Nature thou dost owe 
The charms that all obey. 

Though without question we resign 

The sceptre to such hands as thine, 

Of us to hold it thou must not decline. 
For thy subjects' sake ! 

That we for aye thy name may bless, 

On these plain truths, O Liz, reflecting. 
Strive to become a good princess, 

Our liberties respecting ! 
Wreathe round thy brow, all bright and fair, 
The roses that Love reaps, and there 
For many a day thy crown securely wear. 
For thy subjects' sake! 




w 



Her/.og von Wellington. 
Nach dem Leben vOn Fleischmann, London, 1814. 

NUrnberg (no date). 



BEFORE WATERLOO. 

On the twelfth of June, 1815, the doors of the Tuileries 
closed behind Napoleon, never to open for him again. 
He and the Grand Army of France were about to enter 
upon their last campaign, a campaign which was fated to 
be a short, but a most decisive one. With less than three 
hundred thousand men, the dif^cult problem of how to 
beat back more than a million of armed foes, pouring in 
from all sides upon the frontiers of his country, confronted 
the Emperor. Never had such a stupendous task, and one 
fraught with so much weal or woe to the nation, stared 
him in the face. Where now was that brilliant galaxy of 
warriors who, in the days when victory and glory followed 
his departure, always rode out of Paris by the side of 
their chief? Where Eugene, Murat, Berthier, Lannes, 
Bessieres, Duroc, Marmont, Junot, Oudinot, Macdonald, 
and Poniatowski ? None with him in this his last desper- 
ate struggle. 

The history of the battle of Waterloo has been written 
more times and by more writers than that of any other 
battle fought since the beginning of time, and to-day how 
the result attained was brought about is still an unsettled 
question. Was the battle lost to France because the 
guide shook his head one way instead of the other, or 
was it because of the sunken road which, in fiction, broke 
423 



424 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

up the charge of Cuirassiers of the Old Guard ? Was it 
because Ney refused to obey orders, or was it because 
Grouchy refused to disobey ? Was it because the great 
Emperor slept at a critical moment, or was it because Old 
Bliicher did not sleep at all ? A poet's license is broad 
enough to accept any, or all, or none of these explanations 
and the answer to the question of how it happened will 
not be found in this collection. On the fifteenth of June 
Napoleon was at Charleroi, Wellington at Brussels, and 
Bliicher at Namur; each holding, as it were, the corner of 
a triangle. It was on that night the Duchess of Rich- 
mond gave her famous ball at Brussels, from which 
Wellington and his ofificers were rudely torn by the news 
that Bonaparte had crossed the frontier and was in Bel- 
gium. In the early morning of the sixteenth, Napoleon, 
supposing Ney to be in possession of Quatre-Bras, ad- 
vanced to Ligny, where he met Bliicher and the entire 
Prussian army on their way to join the English army at 
Waterloo. All day the battle went on and when night 
fell Napoleon was everywhere victorious, and the Prus- 
sians were in full retreat toward Wavre. Had Ney actu- 
ally occupied Quatre-Bras, as he had been ordered to do, 
the Prussian army could not have escaped complete 
destruction. But Wellington had possession of that im- 
portant position, and the advantage gained by the glorious 
victory at Ligny was lost. Why it was that Ney did not 
take possession of Quatre-Bras on the night of the fif- 
teenth, as he easily could have done, is still a mystery. 
He made a gallant fight on the sixteenth to gain what 
he had lost, but in vain. Perhaps it was at Quatre-Bras 
that Waterloo was reallv decided. 



BEFORE WATERLOO. 425 

BEFORE WATERLOO. 

Lord Byron. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a wedding bell ; 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfin'd ; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 

But, hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar ! 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival, 

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near. 

His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, 

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 



426 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And there were sudden partings, such as press 

The Hfe from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated : who would guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 

While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! They come ! 

they come ! " 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose, 

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 

The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears 1 

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves. 

Over the unreturning brave — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 

Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 



BEFORE WATERLOO. 427 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 

The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array ! 

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent. 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay. 

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, 
Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 

On the seventeenth, Napoleon joined Ney and started 
in pursuit of WelHngton, then in retreat towards Water- 
loo. Grouchy had been instructed to follow Blucher and 
prevent him from combining with the English army. 
Wellington made a stand at Waterloo, and there awaited 
the coming of his great adversary. The night of the sev- 
enteenth was spent by Napoleon, exposed to a drenching 
rain, in preparing for the ordeal of the morrow. If Blucher 
could be kept from giving aid to the Iron Duke, the re- 
sult of the impending conflict would surely be a victory 
for the French cause. Daybreak found the rain still pour- 
ing down in torrents, and it was not until after eleven 
o'clock that an attack was ordered. Perhaps it was this 
delay of a few hours that brought about the awful defeat 
which overtook the French army. 

THE DANCE OF DEATH. 

Sir Walter Scott. 

Night and morning were at meeting 

Over Waterloo : 
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting, 

Faint and low they crew. 
For no paly beam yet shone 
On the heights of Mount Saint John ; 
Tempest-clouds prolonged the swa}- 
Of timeless darkness over day ; 
428 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 429 

Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower 
Marked it a predestined hour. 
Broad and frequent through the night 
Flashed the sheets of levin-light : 
Muskets, glancing lightnings back, 
Showed the dreary bivouac 

Where the soldier lay. 
Chill and stiff, and drenched with rain, 
Wishing dawn of morn again. 

Though death should come with day. 
'T is at such a tide and hour. 
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power. 
And ghastly forms through mist and shower, 

Gleam on the gifted ken ; 
And then the affrighted prophet's ear 
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear. 
Presaging death and ruin near 

Among the sons of men ; — 
Apart from Albyn's war-array, 
'T was then gray Allan sleepless lay ; 
Gray Allan, who for many a day. 

Had followed stout and stern. 
Where through battle's rout and reel, 
Storm of shot and hedge of steel, 
Led the grandson of Lochiel, 

Valiant Fassiefern. 
Through steel and shot he leads no more, 
Low-laid mid friends' and foemen's gore, — 
But long his native lake's wild shore. 
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, 

And Morven long shall tell, 
And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe, 
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, 
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra 

Of conquest as he fell. 



430 A METRICAL III STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Lone on the outskirts of the host, 

The weary sentinel held post, 

And heard, through darkness far aloof, 

The frequent clang of courser's hoof, 

Where held the cloaked patrol their course ; 

And spurred 'gainst storm and swerving horse ; 

But there are sounds in Allan's ear, 

Patrol nor sentinel may hear, 

And sights before his eye aghast 

Invisible to them have passed, 

When down the destined plain 
'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, 
Wild as marsh-born meteors' glance, 
Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance, 

And doomed the future slain. 

Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, 
When Scotland's James his march prepared 

For Flodden's fatal plain ; 
Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, 
As Choosers of the Slain, adored 

The yet unchristen'd Dane. 
An indistinct and phantom band, 
They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, 

With gestures wild and dread ; 
The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, 
Saw through their faint and shadowy form 

The lightning's flash more red ; 
And still their ghastly roundelay 
Was of the coming battle-fray. 

And of the destined dead. 

Song. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While liehtnincfs g-lance, 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 43 1 

And thunders rattle loud ; 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Our airy feet, 
So light and fleet. 

They do not bend the rye 
That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, 
And swells again in eddying wave. 

As each wild gust goes by ; 
But still the corn, 
At dawn of morn. 

Our fatal steps that bore. 
At eve lies waste, 
A trampled paste 

Of blackening mud and gore. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance. 

And thunders rattle loud ; 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave. 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Wheel the wild dance ! 
Brave sons of France, 

For you our ring makes room ; 
Make space full wide 
For martial pride, 

For banner, spear, and plume. 
Approach, draw near, 
Proud cuirassier ! 

Room for the men of steel ! 
Through crest and plate 
The broadsword's weight 

Both head and heart shall feel. 



432 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud ; 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Sons of the spear ! 
You feel us near 

In many a ghastly dream ; 
With fancy's eye 
Our forms you spy. 

And hear our fatal scream. 
With clearer sight 
Ere falls the night, 

Just when to weal or woe 
Your disembodied souls take flight 
On trembling wing — each startled sprite 

Our choir of death shall know. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud ; 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers. 
Redder rain shall soon be ours — 

See the east grows wan — 
Yield we place to sterner game, 
Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame 
Shall the welkin's thunders shame: 
Elemental rage is tame 

To the wrath of man. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 433 

At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe 
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw, 

The legend heard him say ; 
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, 
Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb, 

Ere closed that bloody day — 
He sleeps far from his Highland heath, — 
But often of the Dance of Death 

His comrades tell the tale. 
On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, 
And waning watch-fires glow less bright. 

And dawn is glimmering pale. 



WATERLOO. 

Many such incidents as the following no doubt actually 
took place the day the battle of Waterloo was fought. 
It was a glorious day, in June ; a Sabbath day, clear 
and warm after the heavy rain of the night, which 
had entirely ceased ere the roar of battle began. At 
home, mothers and sisters and sweethearts were praying 
for the safety of those dear to them who were about to 
engage in deadly combat. It was while these loved ones 
were engaged in their devotions at church that the 
battle commenced, and from many a maiden's heart, in 
Kent and elsewhere, went out a fervent petition asking 
Divine protection for the one dearer to her than life ; and 
many a noble boy fought better and died more heroically 
that awful day, knowing that such a woman was praying 
for him. 

WATERLOO. 

Douglas Brooke Wheelton Sladen. 

" What struck?" 
" Half-past ten o'clock." 
As over his saddle-bow he bent. 
He thought of the village church in Kent, 
And said, " She '11 be kneeling soon to pray — 
Perhaps for me, on this Sabbath-day." 
434 



WATERLOO. 435 

Ping! ping! 

Hark the bullets wing ! 

Their cuirassiers sweep across the plain. 

*' Charge them, our Life Guards ! " — They turn again ; 

While English beauty is on its knees 

For English valour across the seas. 

There goes 

The vanguard of the foes ! 

They 've taken the wood by Hougoumont ! 

" Coldstreams and Fusiliers to the front ! " 

Taken again, lads ! that 's not amiss ; 

Your sweethearts at home will boast of this. 

Pell-mell, 

Bullet, shot, and shell 

Rain on our infantry thick and fast ; 

Many a stout heart will beat its last ; 

Blue eyes will moisten many a day 

For good lives lightly given away. 

Crash, clash, 

Like a torrent's dash, 

Lancer and cuirassier leap on the square ! 

Scarcely a third of the bayonets there. 

Ye who would look on old England again, 

Now must ye prove yourselves Englishmen. 

Stamp, stamp, 

With its even tramp. 

Rolls uphill the invincible Guard : 

Falters it at the fiftieth yard? 

Weak, worn, and oft assaulted the foe. 

Yet never its heart misgave it so. 



436 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

On, on, 

And the fight is won ! 

Shot-stricken linesman and thrice-charged Guard 

Glare at them lion-like, hungry and hard ; 

His waiting is done — his hour has come ; 

Pent-up fierceness drives bayonets home. 

On, on. 

Life Guard and Dragoon ! 

An English charge and a red right hand 

Will bring fair years to your fair old land. 

With riven corselet and shivered lance. 

Is reft and shivered the pride of France. 

Still, still, 

In the moonlight chill, 

A dying Dragoon looks up to a friend : 

" Tell her I did my part to the end — 

Tell her I died as an Englishman should — 

And give her — her handkerchief — it is my blood.' 

There went, 

From a church in Kent, 

An eager and anxious prayer to God 

For lovers, brothers, and sons abroad : 

The fairest and noblest prayed for one — 

Neither lover, nor brother, nor son. 

A calm 

After hymn and psalm : 

The preacher in silent thought is bowed. 

Ere he gives out the bidding prayer aloud. 

Hark ! what can that long, dull booming be, 

Swept by the east wind across the sea? 



IVA TERLOO. 437 

Boom, boom, 

Like the voice of doom ! 

The preacher has fought, and knows full well 

The message that booming has to tell, 

And gives out his text : " Let God arise, 

And he shall scatter our enemies." 

One night 

In two memories bright ; 

One golden hour unwatched at a ball, 

A kerchief taken or given was all. 

" Off to the war to-morrow — good-by — 

I '11 carry it with me until I die ! " 

He is dead ! 

" You have come," she said, 

" To bring me tidings of him I loved ? 

Your face has told me your tale — he proved 

Worthy the name I did not know. 

The man that I thought him a year ago." 

" He died 

With stern English pride, 
But lived to fight the great battle through ; 
His last words were of England and you ; 
He died as an English gentleman should, 
And sent you — your handkerchief — rich with his 
blood." 

"Ah me! 

Life is sad," moaned she, 

" When all the sun in its sky hath flown ! " 

And " One loving bosom is very lone." 

And " Oh, if I might lie by you 

In your soldier's grave at Waterloo !" 



NEY'S CHARGE AT WATERLOO. 

Shortly after eleven o'clock, on the morning of the 
eighteenth of June, the work of slaughter began. It was 
at that time Napoleon ordered the attack upon Hougou- 
mont, which was intended as a diversion only, but which 
was fated to become a most important factor in the result 
of the battle. Napoleon's brother Jerome undertook to 
carry out this part of the Emperor's plan, but he signally 
failed, not through any lack of bravery on his part, or on 
that of his soldiers, but wholly through an apparent un- 
justifiable ignorance of the nature of the task assigned 
him. It was not until after one o'clock that the first 
attack on the centre of the English line was ordered. 
D'Erlon, who had charge of this movement, was repulsed 
and driven back with fearful loss. While the French 
troops were re-forming, and preparations were being made 
to again test the strength of Wellington's line, Bulow's 
corps of the Prussian army appeared on the field, and 
Napoleon was compelled to withdraw a part of his force 
from the advance about to be made, in order to meet this 
new foe. In this undertaking Napoleon assumed personal 
command, leaving Ney in charge of the movement against 
the English line. Ney determined to make the attack 
with cavalry, and for two long hours his iron horsemen 
433 



Ney. 
From an engraving by J. Kennerly. 

Place and date of publication unknown. 



NEY'S CHARGE AT WATERLOO. 439 

hurled themselves against that line, which would neither 
bend nor break. By reason of sheer exhaustion on the 
part of the French cuirassiers this assault also failed. 
Napoleon having, as he supposed, effectually beaten the 
Prussians, returned to the front, where Ney made known 
to him the true condition of affairs. The Imperial Guard, 
or rather what remained of it, was the only resource left. 
Upon this hitherto invincible band of warriors depended 
the fate of France. It was about seven o'clock, in the 
evening of that awful day, when Napoleon handed over 
to Ney all he had — the remnant of his Guard. What 
followed is told in the following verses. 



NEY S CHARGE AT WATERLOO. 

Anon. 

'T was the Corsican's last struggle — dark and lurid rose 

the morn 
Where, on the field of Waterloo, light waved the tasselled 

corn. 
And. where proud England's chivalry, fresh from the giddy 

dance. 
Went forth to bide, in war's red tide, the Grand Army of 

France. 
There stood the rival nations, there each ensign fluttered 

high, 
Nodding its stern defiance as it streamed toward the sky. 
There the farmer boys of Yorkshire, the conscript from. 

the Seine, 
The veteran from the Indies, and from Moscow's icy plain,, 
The shepherd of the Highlands, and Naples' gondoliers,, 
The high noblesse of England, the Empire's haughty peers. 



440 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

All, all went forth that awful morn with hearts of bound- 
ing pride, — 

Went forth, as to a bridal, — to meet Death as a bride. 

Hark ! to the shrieking trumpet ! hark ! to the rolling drum ! 

Hark! how the crashing cannon-shot proclaim the battle 
storm ! 

Be merry, Death ! for never yet, in one short summer 
morn, 

Hast thou reaped a bloodier harvest than in yonder 
trampled corn. 

The day wore on — where in mad charge the fiery cuiras- 
siers 

Still spurred against the bayonets of the stout English 
squares. 

The smoke had settled dark and gray ; and in that battle 
cloud 

Both armies were enveloped, as in some Titanic shroud. 

'T was then an aide rode headlong to where Napoleon 
stood : 

" Sire ! Sire! " he cried, " the Prussians ! they 're debouch- 
ing from the wood." 

Napoleon turned — at those dread words he felt the Em- 
pire grand 

Sinking like withering ashes from beneath his nerveless 
hand. 

" Send for the Prince of Moskwa ! hasten my Guard's 
advance ! 

On him and them alone must rest the destiny of France." 

The marshal came — he cast a glance of anguish not of fear, 

To where the Prussians' sullen gun sent warnings to his 
ear. 

" I am here," he said, " my chieftain ; I have erred, but 
I am true ; 

I am here to die, as I have lived, for glory, France, and 
you. 



NEY'S CHARGE AT WATERLOO. 44 1 

" Ney ! " said the Emperor, " dear Ney ! tried friend in 

brighter days, 
Thy brother's star is dull and dim ; 't is fading from his 

gaze. 
The men he made immortal have left him, one by 

one ; 
The princes, kings, and marshals — aye, and brothers — all 

are gone. 
Ney! bravest of the brave ! the Empire shivers! must it 

fall? 
Go, lead the Guards ! the last great charge must save or 

ruin all. 
Strike once again for glory — safety — liberty, dear Ney, 
The world's vast fate hangs quivering on thy valiant arm 

to-day ! " 
The bearskins of the Grenadiers gleam grimly through 

the corn ; 
No roll of drum, no trumpet tone, is heard to cheer them 

on ; 
Through blue and livid sheets of flame Ney leads them — 

on they go, 
Till he hurls them, as an avalanche, against the shrinking 

foe. 
Still on ! two solid ranks before their charge are scattered 

wide. 
And yet those foes, like hydras' heads, spring up on every 

side ; 
Volcanic bursts of red-hot rain are vain to make them 

fly- 
They cannot on — they will not turn — so, tarry there to 

die. 
They are falling, they are falhng, but each soldier only 

sees 
His loved tricolour still shivering, torn, defiant in the 

breeze ; 



442 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And though on front, flank, rear is shrieked the Saxons' 

mad hurrah, 
Each bleeding square dies proudly there, with " Vive 

I'Empereur ! " 
But fainter — fainter are the cries, and fewer are the men ; 
The bearskins of the Grenadiers are low upon the plain. 
'T is sunset ; o'er red Waterloo the shroud of night is 

thrown ; 
Napoleon ! thy Guard is dead ! a broken toy thy crown ! 



AN EPISODE OF WATERLOO. 

The defeat of the Imperial Guard at Waterloo was a 
startling revelation to the rest of the French army. Never 
before in its history had its stern warriors been known to 
move on afield of battle, except in the path of victory. If 
tradition be true they now accepted annihilation ratherthan 
acknowledge themselves conquered. The fidelity of the 
soldiers of the Grand Army towards their Emperor con- 
tinued to the end. To die for him, rather than to live for 
another, was their choice. Their devotion was genuine, 
and it ceased only when death summoned them from his 
side. Ney led the Guard in its last charge, and when 
horse after horse was shot under him, he still led these 
heroes, on foot, sword in hand. "Come, gentlemen, fol- 
low me, and see how a marshal of France can die," was 
an expression worthy the man ; but how much nobler 
had it not been supplemented by the words, " If I 'm not 
shot here, I '11 be hanged when I return to Paris." It was 
policy for him to die on the field of battle ; to the soldiers, 
death was but the fulfilment on their part of the contract 
made with the Emperor. 

The story told below is founded on an incident said to 
have actually occurred at Waterloo. Had the generals 
443 



444 ^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

and marshals of Napoleon been made of the same stuff 
this private soldier was, Waterloo would never have been 
fought. 

AN EPISODE OF WATERLOO. 

Francis S. Saltus. 

The battle was waning ; the sun had set 

Thro' the clouds of smoke on the shrieking plain, 

And the scattered bodies of men lay wet 

In great pools of blood and great pools of rain. 

Then thunders of cannon still rent the air. 
And the crimson field had been barely won, 

While echoes of anguish drowned the blare. 
And greeted the answer of brave Cambronne. 

Thro' the dust and gloom from the north advanced, 
With helmeted heads and vigorous breath, 

The dragoons of Bliicher, equipped and lanced. 
To swell the red ties of the river Death. 

And the Emperor stood on the gory field. 

With his great calm eyes in a strange unrest ; 

But his forehead's pale marble ne'er revealed 
All the burning hell in his tortured breast. 

It was o'er; and the victor's eager cry 

Rose up in the night, while the piercing groans 

Of thousand of heroes left to die 

Blent shrill with the cannon's monotones. 

Thro' the heat of fire, thro' the bullets' rain, 

Thro' the sea of battle that stormed and waved. 

The pale man on the prancing horse again 

Led his legions on, for France might be saved. 



AN EPISODE A T WA TERLOO. 445 

And though all seemed lost, Jie was still adored 

By those valorous hearts that knew naught of fear ; 

And the maimed and dying, with limbs begored, 
As he hurried by, would rise and cheer. 

There was one poor soldier who lay between 
Five mangled Prussians and heard him pass ; 

He surmised him near, for he had not seen, 

And he struggled to rise from the bloody grass. 

He had left his mother in old Touraine, 

His sister Jeanne, and his father blind, 
But remembered naught of their love again 

When the thought of his Emperor filled his mind. 

He thought, as he wallowed in clotted gore. 
Of the sweetheart he quitted against his will. 

Of the dear old home he would see no more. 
But the Emperor held his heart's love still. 

His left arm had been shattered by grape and shell. 

And hung to the bone by a single thread ; 
But he heard the great Emperor's voice — and, well, 
'' I '11 give one last proof of my love," he said. 

For he felt that his darling chief was nigh, 

And wrenched the dead arm from the broken blade, 

And cried with his weak, poor, feeble cry, 
" It has served thee well, and for thee it was made ! " 

And he waved it high in his frantic might 

As Napoleon passed with a flash and a whir ; 
And his last words rang through the awful night, 
" Vive I 'Enipereur ! Vive T Empereiir ! " 



AFTER THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 

The result of the battle of Waterloo was brought about 
by so many combinations of circumstances, not counted on 
by Napoleon, that it would be idle to fix upon any of 
them as the pivotal one. All was staked, and lost ; and 
whether disaster came by reason of treason and disobe- 
dience on the part of those high in ofifice, the fact remains 
that the rank and file of the army gained only honour and 
glory. It is now eighty years since the battle was fought. 
With it ended the career of the greatest man the world 
ever produced. The greatest, because his life began, was 
made, and ended within the space of twenty years. 
From Toulon to Waterloo means twenty-two years ; but 
Napoleon's real career began in 1795, when, at twenty-six 
years of age, he was called to the command of the govern- 
ment troops in Paris. At forty-six he fought Waterloo, 
and retired, leaving behind him the most marvellous his- 
tory ever made by mortal man. What the future of 
France would have been had Waterloo been won, no 
one can conjecture. It is extremely doubtful whether 
it was bettered by the loss of the battle. The French 
people were certainly not at rest for many years. The 
lily and the violet flourished not in the same soil. One 
went, and then the other, until now France seems to be at 
446 



AFTER THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 447 

peace. What the coming of a second Napoleon would 
portend is indeed a grave question. 

AFTER THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 

Jean Fran^ois-Casimir Delavigne. 

They breathe no longer ; let their ashes rest ! 

Clamour unjust and calumny 
They stooped not to confute ; but flung their breast 

Against the legions of your enemy, 
And thus avenged themselves : for you they die. 

Woe to you, woe ! if those inhuman eyes 

Can spare no drops to mourn your country's weal ; 
Shrinking before your selfish miseries ; 

Against the common sorrow hard as steel: 
Tremble ! the hand of death upon you lies : 

You may be forced yourselves to feel. 
But no, — what son of France has spared his tears 

For her defenders, dying in their fame ? 
Though kings return, desired through lengthening years, 

What old man's cheek is tinged not with her shame? 
What veteran, who their fortune's treason hears, 

Feels not the quickening spark of his old youthful 
flame? 

Great Heaven ! what lessons mark that one day's page ! 
What ghastly figures that might crowd an age ! 
How shall the historic Muse record the day. 
Nor, starting, cast the trembling pen away? 
Hide from me, hide those soldiers overborne, 
Broken with toil, with death-bolts crushed and torn, — 
Those quivering limbs with dust defiled, 
And bloody corses upon corses piled ; 



448 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Veil from mine eyes that monument 

Of nation against nation spent 

In struggling rage that pants for breath ; 

Spare us the bands thou sparedst, Death ! 
O Varus ! where the warriors thou hast led ? 
Restore Our Legions ! — give us back the dead 



I see the broken squadrons reel ; 

The steeds plunge wild with spurning heel ; 

Our eagles trod in miry gore ; 

The leopard standards swooping o'er ; 

The wounded on their slow cars dying ; 

The rout disordered, wavering, flying ; 
Tortured with struggles vain, the throng 
Sway, shock, and drag their shattered mass along, 
And leave behind their long array — 
Wrecks, corses, blood, — the foot-marks of their way. 

Through whirlwind smoke and flashing flame, — 

O grief ! — what sight appalls mine eye ? 
The sacred band, with generous shame. 

Sole 'gainst an army, pause — to die ! 
Struck with the rare devotion, 't is in vain 
The foes at gaze their blades restrain. 
And, proud to conquer, hem them round : the cry 
Returns, " The guard surrender not ! they die ! " 
'T is said that, when in dust they saw them lie, 

A reverend sorrow for their brave career 
Smote on the foe : they fixed the pensive eye, 

And first beheld them undisturbed with fear. 

See, then, these heroes, long invincible. 

Whose threatening features still their conquerors 
brave • 



AFTER THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. 449 

Frozen in death, those eyes are terrible ; 

Feats of the past their deep-scarred brows engrave: 
For these are they who bore ItaHa's sun, 

Who o'er Castilia's mountain-barrier passed ; 
The North beheld them o'er the rampart run, 

Which frosts of ages round her Russian cast : 
All sank subdued before them, and the date 

Of combats owed this guerdon to their glory, 
Seldom to Franks denied, — to fall elate 

On some proud day that should survive in story. 

Let us no longer mourn them ; for the palm 
Unwithering s4iades their features stern and calm : 
Franks! mourn we for ourselves, — our land's disgrace, — 
The proud, mean passions that divide her race. 
What age so rank in treasons ? to our blood 
The love is alien of the common good ; 
Friendship, no more unbosomed, hides her tears, 
And man shuns man, and each his fellow fears ; 
Scared from her sanctuary. Faith shuddering flies 
The din of oaths, the vaunt of perjuries. 

O cursed delirium ! jars deplored. 
That yield our home-hearths to the stranger's sword ! 
Our faithless hands but draw the gleaming blade 
To wound the bosom which its point should aid. 

The strangers raze our fenced walls ; 

The castle stoops, the city falls ; 

Insulting foes their truce forget; 

The unsparing war-bolt thunders yet ; 

Flames glare our ravaged hamlets o'er. 

And funerals darken every door ; 
Drained provinces their greedy prefects rue, 
Beneath the lilied or the triple hue ; 



450 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And Franks, disputing for the choice of power, 

Dethrone a banner, or proscribe a flower. 

France ! to our fierce intolerance we owe 

The ills that from these sad divisions flow ; 

'T is time the sacrifice were made to thee 

Of our suspicious pride, our civic enmity: 

Haste, — quench the torches of intestine war ; 

Heaven points the lily as our army's star ; 

Hoist, then, the banner of the white, — some tears 

May bathe the thrice-dyed flag which Austerlitz endears, 

France! France! awake, with one indignant mind ! 
With new-born hosts the throne's dread precinct bind ! 
Disarmed, divided, conquerors o'er us stand ; 
Present the olive, but the sword in hand. 
And thou, O people, flushed with our defeat, 
To whom the mourning of our land is sweet. 
Thou witness of the death-blow of our brave ! 
Dream not that France is vanquished to a slave ; 
Call not with pride the avengers yet to come : 
Heaven may remit the chastening of our doom ; 
A new Germanicus may yet demand 
Those eaeles wrested from our Varus' hand. 



THE FAMOUS VICTORY. 

It would never do to let so good an opportunity as 
Waterloo pass without taking advantage of it, so the 
English writers sharpened their wits, and went at their 
friends across the channel in the usual manner. If all 
their efforts had been as harmless as the following. 
Napoleon himself might well have enjoyed being made 
fun of. But this is a mild example. Most of the things 
written and said were bitterly insulting, and wholly un- 
worthy the great nation of England, whose boast always 
has been to respect a fallen foe. 

THE FAMOUS VICTORY. 

WiNTHROP M. PrAEI). 

Ay, here such valorous deeds were done 

As ne'er were done before ; 
Ay, here the reddest wreath was won 

That ever Gallia wore : 
Since Ariosto's wondrous knight 

Made all the Pagans dance. 
There never dawned so bright a day 

As Waterloo's on France. 

The trumpet poured its deafening sound. 
Flags fluttered on the gale, 



452 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And cannon roared, and heads flew round 

As fast as summer hail : 
The sabres flashed ; with rage and fear 

The steeds began to prance ; 
The English quaked from front to rear, — 

They never quake in France ! 

The cuirassiers rode in and out 

As fierce as wolves and bears ; 
'T was grand to see them slash about 

Amongst the English squares ! 
And then the Polish lancer came, 

Careering with his lance ; 
No wonder Britons blushed for shame, 

And ran away from France. 

The Duke of York was killed that day — 

The King was sadly scarred ; 
Lord Eldon, as he ran away, 

Was captured by the Guard : 
Poor Wellington, with fifty Blues, 

Escaped by some strange chance ; 
And henceforth never dared again 

To show himself in France. 

So Buonaparte pitched his tent 

That day in Grosvenor Place ; 
And Ney rode straight to Parliament, 

And broke the Speaker's mace. 
" Vive I'Empereur ! " was said and sung 

From Peebles to Penzance ; 
The mayor and aldermen were hung. 

Which made folks laugh in France. 

They pulled the tower of London down ; 
They burned our wooden walls; 



THE FAMOUS VICTORY. 453 

They brought his HoHness to town, 

And throned him in St. Paul's : 
And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes, 

Awaking from a trance, 
And grumbled out in dread surprise, 

" Oh, mercy ! we 're in France ! " 

They sent a Regent to our isle ; 

The little King of Rome ; 
And squibs and crackers all the while 

Blazed in the Place Vendome ; 
And ever since, in arts and power 

They 're making great advance ; 
They've had strong beer from that glad hour. 

And sea-coal fires in France. 

MORAL. 

My uncle, Captain Flanigan, 

Who lost a leg in Spain, 
Tells stories of a little man 

Who died at St. Helene : 
But, bless my heart ! they can't be true — 

They 're surely all romance ; 
John Bull was beat at Waterloo — 

They '11 swear to it in France ! 



A VISIT TO BONAPARTE IN PLYMOUTH 
SOUND. 

Ap^TER his defeat at Waterloo, Napoleon went back to 
Paris, and there tried to bring some sort of order out of 
the chaos he found, but all in vain. F"ickle France would 
consent to nothing but his abdication. Those who had been 
the most enthusiastic in their greetings upon his return 
from Elba were now the loudest in their demands that he 
vacate the throne. In answer to these demands, Napoleon, 
for the second time, laid down the crown ; and then, as a 
soldier, offered his services to France in an endeavour to 
drive back the invaders, now rapidly approaching Paris. 
His offer was refused, and he was asked in a peremptory- 
manner to leave Paris and France as quickly as possible, else 
the provisional government would not be answerable for his 
personal safety. Where should he go ? This man, who had 
had all Europe to choose from, was now seeking an isolated 
corner of the earth to which he might fly in order to hide 
himself from his own countrymen and escape from the 
hands of his merciless foes. America was first thought 
of, but that proving impossible. Napoleon determined to 
surrender himself to England, hoping to get, at least, jus- 
tice from that constant and powerful enemy. His letter 
to the Prince Regent proved the confidence he had in the 
generosity of the English Government. On the fifteenth 
454 



A VISIT TO BONAPARTE IN PLYMOUTH SOUND. 455 

of July he went on board the BelleropJion and was there 
received with all the honours due his exalted rank, and he 
sailed for England, fully assured in hrs own mind of receiv- 
ing all that he might in justice demand. On the twenty- 
sixth the BelleropJion arrived at Plymouth. Here Napoleon 
was informed that, instead of being allowed even to land 
in England, he was to be sent a prisoner to St. Helena. 
The common people of England, more generous and 
humane than the government, came in crowds to Pymouth 
to catch a glimpse of the man who had ever been the 
people's friend, and they greeted him with kindness and 
even enthusiasm. 

A VISIT TO BONAPARTE IN PLYMOUTH SOUND. 

(By a Lady.) 

Anon. 

There is nothing so dull as mere fact, you '11 admit, 

While you read my detail, unenlivened by wit ; 

My friends will believe, though they 're told it in rhyme. 

That I thought to return in a far shorter time. 

When at one Ave 're resolv'd, by half past on the move. 

And by two, but a trio, we reach Mutton Cove ; 

When approaching the quay such a rabble and rout, 

That we ask, " My good friend, what is all this about ? " 

" They are rowing a race, and some boats are come in. 

While these people are waiting till t' others begin." 

Well aware of our folly, with risible lip. 

The boatman we told to make haste to the ship ; 

On the colours of fish, here by hampers-full landing, 

W^e gaze for amusement, while still we 're kept standing. 

At length to the Admiral's stairs we have got. 

See his party on board, and hear tunes from his yacht. 

The day is delightful, the gale just enough 



456 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

For the sea to look lively without being rough. 

With those first at the ship, our sight costs the dearer, 

As we 've longer to wait, and not, in the end, nearer; 

For by land and by water so different the case is, 

*T was long before we were jam'd into our places ; 

But on further advice we '11 at present be dumb. 

For half the spectators, you know, are now come : 

In one boat a bevy, all sarcenet and veil. 

In the next some good fellows while toping their ale. 

"Avast ! here 's the guard boat." "Aye, here it comes 

smack." 
And the ladies cry, "Captain, they '11 drive us all back ! " 
Then some bully our men with, " Skull out there, skull 

out ! " 
And others check these with " Mind what you 're about." 
Here 's a crazy old boat, laded dry by a shoe ; 
There, a gay painted barge is forced on our view; 
In this, while Don Solus is jeered by the mob, 
" See that empty boat ; turn it out." " Here 's a fine job." 
Cries one, of some dozens squeezed into the next, 
" I 've left the pork pie ; Oh dear, I 'm so vex'd ! " 
In the long boat, that shews us profusion of oar, 
From the captain bursts forth a most terrible roar 
At his men ; but the anger about who, or what. 
Though they still remember, we soon had forgot. 
Here infants were crying, mothers scolding downright, 
While the next party laughs at some comical sight. 
Now watches and spy-glasses make their appearance. 
And Impatience, that vixen, begins interference ; 
To beguile her, through portholes we eagerly stare, 
For the nobles on deck are all taking the air. 
" Hey dey, what a bustle ! " then, " All safe, all safe ! " 
The crowd is return'd to its chatter and laugh. 
" Pray, what was the matter ? " " From that boat near the 

ship 



A VISIT TO BONAPARTE IN PLYMOUTH SOUND. 457 

A woman fell over, and so got a dip." 

But a hum of applause — yes, his triumph is full ; 

Yet this hum of applause has betrayed our John Bull. 

*' What hum of applause ? Come, I prithee be brief." 

Why, John was delighted to see them ship beef. 

With a smile 't is observed by the Briton polite, 

How the glee of the crowd was improv'd by the sight ; 

For the rough, honest tar had declared, from his heart, 

That he thought this a sight that would beat Bonaparte. 

Some, again, with composure, predict peace and war, 

Others look at the great folks and fancy a star ; 

But we, much fatigued, six o'clock now approaching, 

And on our good nature we thought them encroaching 

When boats are made bridges ; nay, tempted to think 

That through some of these freedoms not strange we 

should sink. 
But here I must mention, when all was most merry. 
As here is each size, from the long boat to wherry. 
When the crowd should disperse, I was fearful, I own, 
Lest your small boats by barges should then be run down. 
But a truce with our hopes, our predictions, and fears, 
For now — yes, at last — our grand object appears ; 
And now every eye to the ship is directed, 
Though to see Bonaparte I no longer expected ; 
For between us what number of men ! and aghast 
We stood, as still thicker and thicker the mast. (?mass) 
But now see Napoleon, who seems in his figure 
What we call mediocre, nor smaller, nor bigger. 
For in spite of our fears, how it was I can't tell, 
What our distance allowed of, we saw very well. 
But in this we 're full right, for now, hurry-scurry. 
Boat rows against boat with the madness of fury. 
The show was all over, but time was outstaid 
By some, and by others attempts were still made 
To get round the ship, in hopes Bonaparte might 
At some place yet be seen, thus to perfect their sight. 



NAPOLEON'S LAST LOOK. 

Historians differ as to just when and where Napoleon 
took his last look at France after his surrender to Cap- 
tain Maitland on board the BelleropJion ; but it seems 
fairly well settled that the incident occurred as the Nor- 
thumberland passed Cape de la Hogue on the way out 
from Plymouth to St. Helena, and after Napoleon had 
been transferred to that vessel. A number of writers hold 
that it was on the twenty-third of July, when passing Cape 
Ushant, going from Rochefort to Plymouth, that the 
Emperor saw France for the last time. Cape Ushant, it is 
true, was in sight on the morning of the day mentioned, 
and Napoleon, with his suite, from the deck of the Bel- 
leropJion, gazed long and sadly upon it. That scene has 
been the theme of the poet and the artist, and it is gen- 
erally accepted as representing Napoleon's farewell to 
France ; but the best authorities agree that it was in Au- 
gust, as the NorthiDuberland ^diSSQd Cape de la Hogue, that 
the last glimpse of France was obtained. However this 
maybe, the scene, wherever it took place, must have been 
an impressive and an affecting one to those who witnessed 
it. What were the thoughts that passed through the 
mind of Napoleon as he gazed upon those fast receding 
shores, never again to be seen by him ? Still in years a 
young man, he was going into an exile worse than death 
458 



NAPOLEON'S LAST LOOK. 459 

to his proud and haughty spirit. Condemned to end his 
existence upon a cold and barren isle, he was leaving be- 
hind the land in which he had won such high distinction 
and enjoyed such power and glory as had never before 
been equalled. Did he think of Lodi and Areola, of 
Marengo and Austerlitz, of Jena and Friedland and 
Wagram, and the many other fields upon which he had 
won such wonderful renown ? Did he think of Moscow 
and the train of disasters that had followed him after 
leaving that ancient city of the Czars ; of bloody Water- 
loo, so recent, and so decisive of his fate? He who so 
lately had been master of the world, was now only per- 
mitted to gaze upon, and that for the last time, the 
country he had found so poor and had made so mighty 
and so rich. Surely he had food enough for reflection. 

napoleon's last look. 

Bartholomew Simmons. 

What of the night, ho ! Watcher there 

Upon the armed deck, 
That holds within its thunderous lair 

The last of empire's wreck, — 
E'en him whose capture now the chain 

From captive earth shall smite ; 
Ho! rocked upon the moaning main. 

Watcher, what of the night ? 

" The stars are waning fast, the curl 

Of morning's coming breeze 
Far in the north begins to furl 

Night's vapour from the seas. 
Her every shred of canvas spread, 

The proud ship plunges free, 



460 A METRICAL HI STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

While bears afar, with stormy head, 
Cape Ushant on our lee." 

At that last word, as trumpet-stirred, 

Forth in the dawning gray 
A silent man made to the deck 

His solitary way. 
And, leaning o'er the poop, he gazed 

Till on his straining view 
That cloudlike speck of land, upraised, 

Distinct, but slowly grew. 

Well may he look until his frame 

Maddens to marble there ; 
He risked Renown's all-grasping game,- 

Dominion or despair, — 
And lost ; and lo ! in vapour furled. 

The last of that loved France, 
For which his prowess cursed the world. 

Is dwindling from his glance. 

He lives, perchance, the past again, 

From the fierce hour when first 
On the astounded hearts of men 

His meteor-presence burst ; 
When blood-besotted Anarchy 

Sank quelled amid the roar 
Of thy far-sweeping musketry, 

Eventful Thermidor ! 

Again he grasps the victor-crown 

Marengo's carnage yields. 
Or bursts o'er Lodi, beating down 

Bavaria's thousand shields ; 



NAPOLEON'S LAST LOOK. 461 

Then, turning from the battle-sod, 

Assumes the Consul's palm, 
Or seizes giant empire's rod 

In solemn Notre Dame. 



And darker thoughts oppress him now, — 

Her ill-requited love, 
Whose faith, as beauteous as her brow. 

Brought blessings from above ; 
Her trampled heart, his darkening star, 

The cry of outraged man, 
And white-lipped Rout and wolfish War, 

Loud thundering on his van. 

Rave on, thou far-resounding deep. 

Whose billows round him roll ! 
Thou 'rt calmness to the storms that sweep 

This moment o'er his soul. 
Black chaos swims before him, spread 

With trophy-shaping bones ; 
The council-strife, the battle-dead, 

Rent charters, cloven thrones. 

Yet, proud one ! could the loftiest day 

Of thy transcendent power 
Match with the soul-compelling sway 

Which in this dreadful hour 
Aids thee to hide beneath the show 

Of calmest lip and eye 
The hell that wars and works below. 

The quenchless thirst to die ? 

The white dawn crimsoned into morn. 
The morning flashed to day. 



462 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And the sun followed, glory-born, 

Rejoicing on his way ; 
And still o'er ocean's kindling flood 

That muser cast his view. 
While round him awed, and silent, stood 

His fate's devoted few. 

Oh for the sulphurous eve of June, 

When down that Belgian hill 
His bristling Guards' superb platoon 

He led unbroken still ! 
Now would he pause, and quit their side 

Upon destruction's marge. 
Nor kinglike share with desperate pride 

Their vainly glorious charge ? 

No, — -gladly forward he would dash 

Amid that onset on, 
Where blazing shot and sabre-crash 

Pealed o'er his empire gone ; 
There, 'neath his vanquished eagles tost. 

Should close his grand career : 
Girt by his heaped and slaughtered host 

He lived, — for fetters here ! 

Enough, — in noontide's yellow light 

Cape Ushant melts away. 
Even as his kingdom's shattered might 

Shall utterly decay, 
Save when his spirit-shaking story, 

In years remotely dim, 
Warms some pale minstrel with its glory 

To raise the song to him. 



MURAT. 
From an engraving by Rosmcesler, after Gros. 

Zwickau (no date). 



THE DEATH OF MURAT. 

While Napoleon was on his way to St. Helena, his 
brother-in-law, that gallant horseman, Murat, met his fate. 
It will be remembered, that directly after the return of 
the French army from Russia, in 1812, Murat, in order to 
save his crown, basely deserted the Emperor, retired to 
his own kingdom, and there took up arms against France 
and his former comrades. After Napoleon's first abdica- 
tion the Allies agreed to reward Murat's treachery with 
treachery, and they passed a resolution at the Congress 
of Vienna expelling him from Naples and awarding that 
country to its former rulers. Before this act of perfidy 
could be carried into effect, Napoleon was again in France 
and at the head of his army. Murat, with all his old-time 
impetuosity, rushed at once to arms, and declared war 
against the Allies, hoping by his zeal to reinstate himself 
in the favour of the Emperor. The result of his hasty act 
was the inevitable one. He was crushed by overwhelm- 
ing strength, his little army cut to pieces, and he left a 
fugitive. Escaping to France, he arrived there only in time 
to learn of the final overthrow of Napoleon, without being 
able to assist, by the aid of his mighty sword, in averting 
it. In fact, his untimely action in drawing that formidable 
weapon at home was, no doubt, a great detriment to the 
cause he wished to advance. After Napoleon's departure 
463 



464 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

for St. Helena, Murat made a desperate attempt to regain 
his throne ; which ended in his being arrested, tried by 
court-martial, and condemned to immediate execution. 
The day before St. Helena was sighted by those on board 
the NortJiiimberland, Murat expiated all his faults by 
bravely dying the death of a soldier. 

THE DEATH OF MURAT. 

Thomas Atkinson. 
" My hour is come. Forget me not. My blessing is with 

you ; 
With you my last, my fondest thought ; with you my 

heart's adieu. 
Farewell, farewell, my Caroline, my children's doting 

mother ! 
I made thee wife. Fate made thee queen ; one hour and 

thou art neither. 
Farewell, my sweet Letitia ! my love is with thee still ; 
Louise and Lucien, adieu ; and thou, my own Achille." 
With quivering lip, but with no tear, — or tear that gazers 

saw, — 
These words, to all his heart held dear, thus wrote the 

brave Murat. 

Then of the locks which, dark and large, o'er his broad 

shoulders hung. 
That streamed war-pennons in the charge, yet like caress- 

ings clung 
In peace around his forehead high, whicii more than 

diadem 
Beseemed the curls that lovingly replaced the cold, hard 

gem. 
He cut him one for wife, for child — 't was all he had to 

will ; 



THE DEA TH OF MURA T. 465 

But with the regal wealth and state he lost its heartless 

chill. 
The iciness of alien power what gushing love may thaw 
The agony of such an hour as this — thy last, Murat ? 

" Comrade, though foe, a soldier asks from thee a soldier's 

aid ; 
They 're not a warrior's only tasks that need his blood and 

blade ; 
That upon which I latest gaze, that which I fondest clasp. 
When death upon my eyeballs sinks and stiffens on my 

grasp. 
This, and these locks around it twined, say, wilt thou see 

them sent. 
Need I say where ? Enough ! 't is kind ! To death, then ! 

I 'm content. 
Oh, to have found death in the field, not as a chained 

outlaw ! 
No more! To destiny I yield, with mightier than Murat." 

They led him forth ; 't was but a stride between his 

prison room 
And where, with yet a monarch's pride, he met a felon's 

doom. 
" Soldiers, your muzzles to my breast will leave brief 

space for pain. 
Strike to the heart ! " His last behest was uttered not in 

vain. 
He turned full to the levelled tubes that held the wished- 

for boon ; 
He gazed upon the love-clasped pledge ; — then volleyed 

the platoon. 
And when their hold the hands gave up, the pitying 

gazers saw 
In the dear image of a wife thy heart's best trait, Murat. 
3° 



ON THE DEATH OF MARSHAL NEY. 

The execution of Marshal Ney may be justified upon 
strictly technical grounds, but it can never be excused. 
According to the terms of the capitulation of Paris he 
should have gone free. Wellington could have saved 
him, if he would ; but what mercy had Ney to expect at 
Wellington's hands, when this same " Iron Duke " had 
advised the English Government, when it had Napoleon 
in its power, to turn him over to the French authorities to 
be dealt with as a traitor ? There was but little differ- 
ence in sentiment in regard to their conquered foe be- 
tween the English duke and the Prussian marshal ; they 
both sought revenge on about the same level. And it is 
beyond comprehension how any court in France could 
condemn Marshal Ney to be shot to death by French- 
men. With the advance guard on every forward move- 
ment, with the rear guard on every retreat, Ney had 
fought his hundred battles for France, and never one 
against her. Guilty he may have been of a very grave 
offence, but did his many years of noble service for his 
country count for nothing in the balance? Napoleon 
pardoned Ney's faults with regard to himself, and they 
were many, and he recognised him always as the " bravest 
of the brave." Surely Louis XVHL could, without dis- 
honour, have forgiven the sturdy, impulsive old marshal 
466 



ON THE DEATH OF MARSHAL NEY. 46/ 

his one offence against him. The Treaty of Paris stipu- 
lated that no person should be molested for his political 
opinions or conduct during the Hundred Days, and yet, 
in spite of this solemn agreement, fifty-eight persons were 
banished and three condemned to death. The young and 
gallant Colonel Lab^doyere suffered the penalty with 
Ney. Lavalette escaped. 

ON THE DEATH OF MARSHAL NEY. 

Anon. 

Could haughty Britain stoop so low from her laurel-girded 
throne. 

When that noble chief was fallen, and all his glory gone? 

When vanished was his marshal pride, and torn his wav- 
ing plume, 

To lead the captive warrior forth to meet a felon's doom ? 

With nations banded at her side, — when from her throne 

she hurled 
The arbiter of kingdoms wide, the conqueror of the 

world, — . 
Could she not then have stretched forth her victor arm 

to save 
Napoleon's honoured chieftain — the bravest of the brave? 

When bayonets flashed around him, and the sheen of 

sabres bright, 
As he clove his red path forward through the thickest of 

the fight ; 
Where'er his waving crest was seen, tossed by the battle's 

breath, 
There his brave host followed him to victory or to death. 



468 -4 METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Look on him now, how fearlessly he marches forth to die! 
How proud his noble bearing, and how calm that haughty 

eye ! 
And his voice will sound its latest in tones as full and clear 
As when above the fight it rose in siDirit-stirring cheer. 

He waved his white-plumed hat high as he did of yore, 
When his comrades stood behind him, the enemy before ; 
"Adieu! my brethren!" was the last, the hero's brief 

farewell— 
The signal waved, the volley streamed, and the noble 

chieftain fell. 

He fell — whose life the northern snows on red Smolen- 

sko's plain, 
The Cossack's lance, more deadly still, had both assailed in 

vain ; 
Whose heart, though swayed by destiny, was to the 

mighty true — 
He fell who stood where thousands died, at deadly 

Waterloo ! 

And, oh ! if in that bloody day when the star of victory 

waned, 
Amid the thundering cannon's smoke, nor e'en a hope 

remained ; 
Oh ! if the death so oft he dared had found him even 

then, 
And he had died, as soldiers die, on the field of fighting 

men ; 

He should have fallen with the brave upon that glorious 

field, 
With those immortal guards who died, but knew not how 

to yield, 



ON THE DEATH OF MARSHAL NEY. 469 

Leading the chivalry of France along like a resistless 

tide, 
Where battle raged the thickest, 't was there he should 

have died. 

And can it be that England — the glorious and the free. 
The conqueror of France on earth, the mistress of the 

sea — 
So far forgot her laurelled pride, nor even dared to save 
The glory and the pride of France — the bravest of the 

brave ? 

She did forget, and from that hour forever shall her 

name 
Be stained with the accursed spot, the impress of her 

shame ; 
The mightiest power looked placid on and saw her allies 

slay, 
When the fight he led so well was o'er, all that could die 

of Ney. 

And, oh ! when dark oblivion has forever o'er them 

thrown 
The shadow of her silent pall, nor e'en their names are 

known : 
The memory then of him they slew shall glorious shine 

on high, 
In the light of fame's immortal wreath — " the brave can 

never die ! " 



MADAME LAVALETTE. 

The escape of Lavalette from prison was due to the 
efforts of his noble wife, aided by three gallant and 
friendly English officers. Condemned to die like Ney 
and Lab^doyere, Lavalette had bidden farewell to his 
friends and the world, and it only remained for him to 
say good-by to his wife and child before being led to 
execution. But this heroic wife was of no mind to part 
with her beloved husband, if escape for him was possible, 
and she determined on making a bold attempt to save 
him. Being permitted, with her daughter, to see her hus- 
band, as it was supposed for the last time, Madame 
Lavalette induced him to change garments with her, 
and so pass out in safety, in her stead, while she remained 
behind to suffer the consequence of her act. The guard 
and the prison walls being passed, Lavalette, with the aid 
of the English officers, was soon outside the gates of 
Paris and across the frontier of France. To the wit, the 
nerve, and the courage of his wife he owed his life, and in 
after years she had her reward when Lavalette was par- 
doned and allowed to return to France and his family. 

MADAME LAVALETTE. 



Let Edinburgh critics o'ervvhelm with their praises 
Their Madame de Stael, and their fam'd L'Epinasse 

Like a meteor, at best, proud Philosophy blazes. 
And the fame of a wit is as brittle as glass : 



MADAME LAVALETTE. 4/1 

But cheering 's the beam and unfading the splendour 
Of thy torch, wedded love ! and it never has yet 

Shone with lustre more holy, more pure, or more tender. 
Than it sheds on the name of the fair Lavalette. 

Then fill high the wine-cup, e'en virtue shall bless it, 

And hallow the goblet which foams to her name ; 
The warm lip of beauty shall piously press it, 

And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame : 
To the health of the woman, who freedom and life, tcno. 

Has risk'd for her husband, we '11 pay the just debt ; 
And hail with applauses the heroine and wife, too, 

The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette. 

Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice. 

To their captive a doom which all Europe abhors, 
And turns from the stairs of the priest-haunted palace. 

While those who replaced them there blush for their 
cause. 
But in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd glory 

Of dukes, and of marshals in darkness hath set, 
Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading the story 

Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lavalette. 



THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR. 

As the shores of France disappeared beneath the dis- 
tant horizon, Napoleon's thoughts, as he stood upon the 
deck of the NortJmmbcrland, may well have been of him- 
self ; of the wonderful destiny which had been his ; of the 
"star" he had followed blindly so many years, and 
which had led him from obscurity to the most dazzling 
splendour ever attained by man ; of the " star " that had 
lured him on from victory to victory, until he had reached 
the very zenith of power and glory, only, in the end, to 
draw him, by the renewed brightness of its baneful light, 
to the fatal field of Waterloo, there to betray him, and 
vanish, for all time, from his sight. From Corsica to the 
throne of France ! from Austerlitz to St. Helena ! Well, 
indeed, may Napoleon, as he took his last look at his 
beloved country, have thought of " his star " and of the 
history he had made, following whither it had beckoned 
him. 

THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR. 

G. W. Cutter. 

" O'er Ajaccio's spires — Corsica's isle — 
And ocean's breast, that foam'd the while — 
A beauteous paradise of earth ! — 
That star arose to hail my birth, 
And guide me to the haughtiest throne 
That any save the gods have known — 
472 



THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR. 473 

At least that e'er was bought with blood, 
From Indus to the Volga's flood. 
In halcyon peace or battle fray 
I 've read my fortune in its ray 
When midst night's gorgeous coronal 
Of millions, it outshone them all ; 
Or tempest robed, its cheering beam 
Blazed where no other dared to gleam. 
My midnight vigils to beguile, 
I 've watched its image in the Nile ; 
And where the Magi used to gaze, 

To form the horoscope of kings, 
I 've joyed to see its silver blaze 

Fall on my eagle's folded wings. 

" O'er Mount St. Bernard's awful height, 
All redly on the brow of night, 
What time my meteor banners rose 
O'er avalanche and Alpine snows, 
And gathered up those mighty crowds 
Around my standard in the clouds. 
And still more brilliant did it rise 
Above the smoke-enveloped skies 
Of Mincio — Wagram — Marengo — 
And Hohenlinden's blushing snow, 
When droop'd my standard o'er the field 
Where empires had been taught to yield ; 
And brighter still, and brighter glow'd. 
As on the mighty empire flow'd, 
That to my very feet swept down 
The Bourbon and the iron crown. 

And redder still, and redder beam'd 

Till Venice — Naples — Rome — were mine ; 

My banners o'er the Tagus stream'd. 
And flam'd along the Rhine. 



474 --^ METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

" And yet, thou bright and glorious star, 
Thou 'st tempted even me too far ; 
I trembled as thy light grew tame 
O'er Moscow's rolling sea of flame, 
And saw an hundred thousand lay 
In death beneath thy frozen ray. 
That instant from my grasp was hurl'd 
The ^gis of a crouching world ; 
And o'er the retrospect of blood, 
A musing, powerless man I stood. 
Till round my throbbing brow accurst 
The crumbling Kremlin's cinders burst. 
I did not weep, I did not pray ; 
I wished not to survive that day ; 
And I had perish'd with a smile, 
Beneath so grand a funeral pile ; 
But Beauharnais and Murat bore 

Me struggling in their arms away, 
Where hilt and rowel red with gore. 

My famish'd ranks had won that day. 

" Once more, from Elba's pictured plain, 

I saw thee, o'er the stormy main. 

So fiercely glow, so redly shine, 

I thought the world again was mine ; 

And springing to my glorious France, 

I bared my bosom to her lance, 

And wept, tho' fallen, still to see, 

Of all my veteran soldiery. 

Not one but would, to shield my life, 

Still venture in the deadliest strife ; 

And freely, ere my blood had flown, 

A nation would have poured its own. 

But, treacherous star ! what boots to tell 

The grief — the agony — the hell 



THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR. 475 

That wrung my heart, as pallid grew 
Thy blaze o'er damning Waterloo ! 
When urged my bugle's wild alarms 
The few against the world in arms ! 
While yet the iron storm was driven, 

And gush'd the war-cloud's crimson rain, 
I saw thy light retreat from heaven, 
And set — to rise — no ! ne'er again ! " 



DESCRIPTION OF ST. HELENA. 

On the fifteenth of October, 1815, the island of St. 
Helena appeared in sight, and on the afternoon of the 
next day Napoleon was permitted to land. The few lines 
following give a fair idea of the future home of the Em- 
peror, and of the place where for six years he was to live 
a life of pain and anguish, both of body and of mind. 

DESCRIPTION OF ST. HELENA. 



Rugged rocks and lofty mountains, 

Interspers'd with crystal fountains ; 

Here and there a grove of trees, 

Are all the wandering stranger sees ; 

The tradesmen, imitating fops, 

With heads as empty as their shops ; 

Unsocial wretches here reside, 

Alike their poverty and pride : 

Throughout this isle there 's scarce a creature 

With either breeding or good nature ; 

For rugged rocks and barren fields 

Are all that St. Helena yields. 



476 



EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN. 

Thomas Moore was an Irishman, which fact will 
probably explain why he saw in a fallen foe only that 
which he could respect ; nothing to insult or abuse. Not 
even when safely imprisoned at St. Helena did the Eng- 
lish writers, as a rule, cease to revile their late mighty 
enemy, and the government was still worse in its treat- 
ment of him who had yielded on the field of battle after 
making one of the most gallant and heroic struggles re- 
corded in history. The rebuke administered to those in 
authority in England, in the following verses, under the 
guise of sporting parlance, was clearly merited ; and had 
it been properly received and acted upon, the credit and 
honour of a great kingdom would not have' suffered as it 
has, because of the vile treatment awarded to Napoleon 
when a helpless captive in its hands. 

EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN. 

Thomas Moore. 

What ! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown ? 

Is this the new go ? — kick a man when he 's down ! 

When the foe has knock'd under, to tread on him then — 

By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben ! 

" Foul ! foul ! " all the lads of the Fancy exclaim — 

Charley Shock is electrified — Belcher spits flame — 

477 



478 A METRICAL If /STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And Molyneux — ay, even Blackey cries " shame ! " 
Time was when John Bull little difference spied 
'Twixt the foe at his feet and the friend at his side : 
When he found (such his humour in fighting and eating) 
His foe, like his beefsteak, the sweeter for beating. 
But this comes, Master Ben, of your cursed foreign 

notions, 
Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace, and lotions ; 
Your Noyeaus, Curacoas, and the devil knows what — 
(One swig of Blue Ruin is worth the whole lot !) 
Your great and small crosses — (my eyes, what a brood ! 
A cross-buttock from me would do some of them good !) — 
Which have spoil'd you, till hardly a drop, my old por- 
poise. 
Of pure English claret is left in your corpus ; 
And (as Jim says), the only one trick, good or bad. 
Of the Fancy you 're up to is fibbing, my lad. 
Hence it comes — Boxiana, disgrace to thy page ! 
Having floor'd, by good luck, the first swell of the age. 
Having conquer'd the prime one, that mill'd us all round, 
You kick'd him, old Ben, as he gasp'd on the ground ! 
Ay — just at the time to show spunk, if you 'd got any — 
Kick'd him, and jaw'd him, and lagg'd him to Botany ! 
Oh, shade of the Cheesemonger ! you, who, alas. 
Doubled up, by the dozen, those Mounseers in brass, 
On that great day of milling, when blood lay in lakes, 
When kings held the bottle, and Europe the stakes, 
Look down upon Ben — see him, dunghill all o'er. 
Insult the fall'n foe, that can harm him no more ! 
Out, cowardly spooney! again and again, 
By the fist of my father, I blush for thee, Ben ! 
To show the white feather is many men's doom, — 
But what of one feather? Ben shows a whole plume. 



TO SIR HUDSON LOWE. 

Napoleon's life at St. Helena was made miserable by 
a continued series of petty annoyances and insults. He 
was deprived of his title of Emperor, and was known and 
spoken of as " General Bonaparte " by all, except his com- 
rades in exile. He was watched and guarded like an 
imprisoned brigand. His personal liberty was curtailed 
to such an extent that at no time, day or night, was he 
alone. His jailer knew his every movement, and it was 
with the utmost reluctance that even the privacy of the 
bath was allowed him. His correspondence was opened 
and read by the high-minded English gentleman who had 
him in charge, and the requests, repeatedly made by his 
comrades, for better treatment for their beloved Emperor, 
were ignored in the most insulting manner. Sir Hudson 
Lowe, the Governor of the island, seemed to take especial 
delight in attempting to humiliate his prisoner; but the 
haughty pride of Napoleon would tolerate nothing of 
that kind, and in the end he refused to see, or to have 
any communication whatever with, the Governor, except 
through the formal and official channels. A squadron 
of war vessels surrounded the island, and a regiment of 
soldiers encamped around Longwood ; no one was allowed 
to land, or to see the illustrious captive, without a special 
permit ; and yet, with all these precautions, fear was con- 
stantly expressed by the valiant Lowe that his charge 
479 



480 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

might escape, unless the utmost severity was exercised 
in the prison discipline established. Napoleon came to 
hate his persecutor, and with good reason. 

Moore very aptly describes the situation in the follow- 
ing lines : 

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE. 

Thomas Moore. 

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Lowe, 
(By name, and ah ! by nature so,) 

As thou art fond of persecutions, 
Perhaps thou 'st read, or heard repeated 
How Captain Gulliver was treated 

When thrown among the Lilliputians. 

They tied him down — these little men did — 
And having valiantly ascended 

Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance. 
They did so strut ! — upon my soul, 
It must have been extremely droll 

To see their pigmy pride's exuberance, 

And how the doughty mannikins 
Amused themselves with sticking pins. 

And needles in the great man's breeches : 
And how some very little things, 
That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings 

Got up, and worried him with speeches. 

Alas, alas ! that it should happen 

To mighty men to be caught napping ! 

Though different, too, these persecutions ; 
For Gulliver there took the nap, 
While here the Nap, oh, sad mishap. 

Is taken by the Lilliputians ! 



THE EAGLET MOURNED. 

When Dr. Antommarchi went to St. Helena as Napo- 
leon's medical attendant, he took with him a number of 
books and other gifts for the Emperor, among which was 
a portrait of the King of Rome as a little child. How 
eagerly did the father seize this precious gift, sent to him 
by Eugene, and how lovingly did he gaze upon the pic- 
ture of his idolised son. This man of iron, who had put 
all Europe in mourning that his own ambition might be 
furthered, and who had spread desolation and woe over 
all the land unmoved, wept at the sight of his son's pic- 
ture. It was for the sake of perpetuating his name in 
this son he had disowned the wife he still loved, and had 
allied himself with a nation that was to aid in his own 
undoing. It was through this son he had hoped so much 
for the future, and now both were prisoners in foreign 
lands, and the fate of his son seemed even more dark and 
hopeless than his own. 

THE EAGLET MOURNED. 

Victor Hugo. 

Too hard Napoleon's fate ! if, lone. 
No being he had loved, no single one, 

Less dark that doom had been. 
But with the heart of might doth ever dwell 
31 481 



482 A METRICAL 211 STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

The heart of love ! and in his island cell 
Two things there were, I ween. 

Two things — a portrait and a map — were there. 
Here hung the pictured world, an infant there ; 
That framed his genius, this enshined his love. 
And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, 
Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, 
What mused he then — what dream of years gone by 
Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that 
glistening eye ? 

'T was not the steps of that heroic tale 
That from Areola marched to Montmirail 

On Glory's red degrees. 
Nor Cairo pashas' steel-devouring steeds. 
Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids — 

Ah, 't was not always these ! 
'T was not the bursting shell, the iron sleet. 
The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet, 

Through twice ten years ago. 
When at his back, upon that sea of steel 
Were launched the rustling banners — there to reel 

Like masts when tempests blow. 
'T was not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar, 
Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar, 
Nor shrill re'veilleiir s camp awakening sound. 
Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around, 
Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, 
Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears 
Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears. 

No ; 'twas an infant image, fresh and fair. 
With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there 
It lav beneath the smile 



THE EAGLET MOURNED. 483 

Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, 
Lingering upon that little lip doth keep 
One pending drop the while. 

Then, his sad head upon his hands inclined, 
He wept ; that father-heart, all unconfined, 

Outpoured in love alone. 
My blessings on thy clay-cold head, poor child, 
Sole being for whose sake his thoughts beguile. 

Forgot the world's lost throne. 



DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 

First, the faithful Las Casas was torn from the side of 
the Emperor, cast into prison, and finally sent to Eng- 
land, because he undertook to send a letter to a friend 
without its having passed through the hands of the Gov- 
ernor ; then Doctor O'Meara was recalled, because he 
would not play the part of a contemptible spy on his 
illustrious patient. General Gourgaud and Madame 
Montholon had also left the island. There remained 
only Bertrand and Montholon to share the weary days 
yet to come before death would release their chief. For 
six years Napoleon lived a life of daily torture. Broken 
down in body, deprived of even the ordinary comforts 
of life, forced to submit to insult and calumny, is it a 
wonder that he did not bear it all with the resignation 
and dignity expected from so exalted a captive ? St. 
Helena and Sir Hudson Lowe will forever remain a blot 
on the fame of England. Both were unnecessary cruel- 
ties inflicted upon Napoleon, more in the spirit of revenge 
than to meet the demands of justice. On the fifth of 
May, 1 82 1, death closed the scene. On the night of the 
fourth occurred one of the most terrible storms ever 
known at St. Helena. The very elements seemed to be 
in harmony with the mind of the dying warrior, who, all 
night through, fought again the glorious battles he had 
484 



DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 485 

won for France. The army — his country — Josephine — 
were the last thoughts that engaged his attention. As 
the storm ceased, his mind grew cahner, and just at sun- 
set he died. 

DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 

Isaac MacLellan. 

Wild was the night, yet a wilder night 

Hung round the soldier's pillow ; 
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight 

Than the fight on the wrathful billow. 

A few fond mourners were kneeling by. 
The few that his stern heart cherished ; 

They knew by his glazed and unearthly eye 
That life had nearly perished. 

They knew by his awful and kingly look, 

By the order hastily spoken. 
That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, 

And the nations' hosts were broken. 

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, 
And triumphed the Frenchman's " Eagle " ; 

And the struggling Austrian fled anew, 
Like the hare before the beagle. 

The bearded Russian he scourged again, 

The Prussian's camp was routed, 
And again on the hills of haughty Spain 

His mighty armies shouted. 

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows. 
At the Pyramids, at the mountain. 

Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, 
And by the Italian fountain ; 



486 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

On the snowy cliffs, where mountain streams 
Dash by the Switzer's dweUing, 

He led again, in his dying dreams, 
His hosts, the broad earth quelHng. 

Again Marengo's field was won, 

And Jena's bloody battle ; 
Again the world was overrun, 

Made pale at his cannon's rattle. 

He died at the close of that darksome day, 
A day that shall live in story ; 

In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
" And left him alone with his glory." 



THE DEATH-BED OF NAPOLEON. 

So many poems have been written concerning the death 
of Napoleon, that it would be impossible to insert them 
all in a collection of this kind, nor would it be profitable 
to do so. Most of these poems are historically incorrect, 
in that they describe Napoleon's death, apparently for 
effect, as occurring in the very midst of the awful storm 
which took place during the night of the fourth ; when, 
in fact, he died about six o'clock on the evening of the 
fifth, after a day of nearly total unconsciousness, and 
when the storm of the night before had virtually ceased. 
It was during the night of the fourth, while the storm 
was at its height, that the dying Emperor appeared in his 
delirium to live his life over again ; his death was a peace- 
ful and quiet one, without a word or a sound to denote 
any thought on his part. 

THE DEATH-BED OF NAPOLEON. 

Mrs. Warfield and Mrs. Lee. 

The wild and foaming wave 

Broke on the island strand 
Where a monarch found a living grave 

With a tried yet broken band. 
And the ocean winds were high. 

And the tempest walked abroad, 
When that eagle caged was called to die — 

That soul restored to God. 
4S7 



A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

No woman's form was there, 

An angel 'mid the gloom ; 
But war-worn men, in stern despair, 

Watched in that midnight room. 
Those eyes which proudly looked 

On strife and hostile spears, 
And shame and insult never brooked, 

Were now all dim with tears. 

But he for whom they wept — 

Their crownless Emperor — 
His spirit still its vigils kept 

O'er the purple tide of war. 
Far from that dying bed, 

From the nerveless heart and limb. 
From the bitter tears around him shed, 

And the torches burning dim ; 

Far from the foeman's stings — 

The isle in the lonely seas — 
That spirit fled on her eagle wings. 

As a bird on the morning breeze. 
And he seemed in death to stand, 

As on many a glorious day, 
With folded arms and high command. 

Once more a tcte d'aruie'e. 

He heard the cannon's roar — 

'T was but the thundering sea ; 
And the trumpet pealed on his ear once more- 

'T was the tempest sweeping free ; 
And the crash of armies meeting, 

And the wail of the crushed and dying — 
'T was but the surf on the white sands beating 

And the eaele's scream in flving ! 



THE DEA TH-BED OF NAPOLEON. 489 

The light of that glorious dream 

Played o'er those features wan, 
Lighting the aspect, pale and dim, 

Of the fallen and dying man ; 
And from those pale lips came 

Those words of haughty sway, 
That woke a nation's soul to flame 

When he stood a tcte d 'ann^e. 

The tempest's wrath was done, 

And the eagle sought her nest. 
And the waves lay calm in the morning sun. 

As if stars had kissed their rest. 
The soul had passed away 

On the wings of the rushing storm — 
And the sunlight's first, rejoicing ray, 

Gleamed on a marble form. 

Yet dauntless still, and full 

Of a fixed and solemn might. 
Were the features, wan and beautiful, 

And the forehead broad and white ; 
And the dream of that dying heart 

Still like a glory lay 
On the face of the exiled Bonaparte — 

No more a tcte d'armee. 



THE DEAD NAPOLEON. 

On the eighth of May, 1821, the mortal remains of 
Napoleon Bonaparte were consigned to earth. Under a 
weeping willow, in one of the most beautiful spots on the 
dreary island of St. Helena, was the place chosen by his 
comrades for the grave of their Emperor. A simple stone, 
bearing the name of " Napoleon," and giving the place 
and date of his birth and death, and nothing else, had 
been prepared by his friends to mark the sacred spot ; 
but the inhuman Lowe, claiming to act under orders from 
the English Government, would permit of no inscription, 
except the words, " General Bonaparte." Rather than 
submit to this cowardly insult offered the dead, a plain 
stone, with no inscription, was erected over the grave of 
the world's conqueror. With a single exception, the 
faithful few who had remained with Napoleon during his 
exile left St. Helena on the twenty-seventh of May. 
One of their number, Sergeant Hubert, refused to leave 
his dead chief, and he remained for nineteen years to 
guard the solitary tomb. When France recalled Napo- 
leon, this faithful soldier followed his remains to their 
final resting-place. 

THE DEAD NAPOLEON. 

Anon. 

Helena ! lone and rocky tomb ! 

Art conscious of thy trust ? 

490 



THE DEAD NAPOLEON. 49 1 

Thy bosom, quiet isle ! inurns 

An Emperor — in dust ! 
And dynasty and diadem 

Are with his rageless brow, — 
Adorned they him alone, on earth — 

Indeed, him only, now ! 



No empire which his spirit reared, 

No sceptre which he won, 
Is heritage by him bestowed, 

Or gilds a loyal son. 
His power, magnificence, and pride 

Are buried with his frame ; 
Of all his glories, but survives 

The glory of his name ! 

He trod the Alpine hills, and shook 

His sceptre from their brow 
O'er startled Italy— and bade 

Her hundred cities bow ! 
An unresisted conqueror 

Trampled the Caesars' halls ; 
He gazed upon the hills of Rome, 

And thundered at her walls ! 



He shook the giant Pyramids, 

And bade old Egypt kneel ; 
He gave the suppliant his law. 

The Syrian his steel I 
He wrote at Austerlitz in blood — 

Proud Austria subdued ! 
At Jena humbled Prussia bowed — 

That urn of ashes sued ! 



492 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

He smote the autocrat, and flung 

The gates of Moscow wide, 
And revelled in her palaces. 

And trampled on her pride ! 
Lo ! lo ! her thousand spires are lit 

To guide the conqueror's way ! 
And Russia's snows, like silver seas, 

Illuminated lay ! 

But hark ! his hour of triumph ends ! 

Behold on Elba's shore 
The desolater of the world — 

His desolation o'er ! 
Again he girds that blade of power — 

The prisoner is free! — 
The shriek of startled Europe shook 

The pillared Pyrenee ! 

Kings leapt, convulsive, to the field — 

To subjugate or die ; 
From Europe unto Asia's sands 

Went up the battle cry. 
And Britain trembled on her tide, 

Displayed her broadest shield ; 
And rushing to the fearful strife. 

The war cry trebly pealed ! 

Ay, but the world in maddened might 

Could grapple with the Brave ; 
His dying bed was Waterloo — 

Helena is his grave. 
'T is well — in Europe's reeking soil 

That bosom could not sleep ; 
That giant spirit's prison house 

Should be the mighty deep ! 



THE DEAD NAPOLEON. 493 

Could Austerlitz or Jena hold 

Their hero's trodden dust ? 
Their swelling brains would bleed afresh — 

Their throbbing bosoms burst ! 
Ay, fitting grave, that lonely isle, 

Where but the pilgrims tread. 
And not the careless steps of all 

Make echoes o'er his head. 



THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON. 

The story is told that, soon after the death of Napo> 
leon, a party of ladies, on their way from India to England, 
landed at St. Helena, and visited the tomb of the Emperor. 
After they had viewed the grave of the mighty dead, and 
as they were about to seat themselves on the grass, in 
order to enjoy their noon-day lunch, one of their number 
discovered a spring near by, from which she drew enough 
water to furnish each of the party a drink. This spring, 
they were told, had been a great favourite of Napoleon's; 
and, as they drank the cold, sparkling beverage, one of 
them soberly and seriously observed : " How happy Bona- 
parte must have been to have had such delicious water to 
drink ! " The others smiled at the philosophy of their 
friend, which enabled her to find in a glass of pure water 
an antidote against the loss of health, liberty, power, and 
domestic affection. As they went away, the ladies filled 
their bottles, with the water, and carried it to England as 
a souvenir of their visit to the tomb of the great Napoleon. 

This incident was the occasion for the following lines 
from a young provincial poet, Mr. C. A. Hurlbert of 
Shrewsbury : 

THE GRAVE OF NAPOLEON. 

C. A. Hurlbert. 

The tempest is hush'd and the Eagle is dead ; 

His thunderbolts fly, and his wings clap no more: 
494 



THE GRA VE OF NAPOLEON. 495 

The plumes that to war and to victory led, 
Forever lie folded on Helena's shore. 

But where is the tomb that should mark the repose 
Of that bright-flaming Comet on History's pages? 

Or the shrine which the bay and the laurel crown strews 
Where the song echoes loudly — the Wonder of ages ? 

Beneath the deep shade of a mute willow only, 
O'er his still honoured relic's pale History weeps; 

And a titleless stone, midst its mountains so lonely, 
Alone marks the spot where Napoleon sleeps. 

A few heartfelt tears at his burial fell, 

But no orphan or parent or widow was there ; 

And Friendship alone op'd its tear crystal well, 
To water the willows which mourn for him there. 

But tears do not speak all the anguish of grief — 

'Tis deeper when pain stops the springs of the eye ; 

When the heart is confined, and deprived of relief 
In the sweet balm of nature, the tear or the sigh. 

And the soldier still heaves in his soul that deep sigh, 
When he thinks of His glory — remembers His wars ; 

And with mourning of sorrow, which never can die. 
Still honours His name and is proud of his scars. 

Immortal with man when mausoleums are rotten, 
While Genius is honoured and conquests enhance, 

He shall need not the praise of the early forgotten — 
His fame is impressed on the bosom of France ! 

Barren Isle ! thou dost hold in thy sea-beaten bosom 
His ashes — be proud of the treasure that 's there ; 

For Pilgrims for ages shall scatter their blossom. 
Till thy deserts smile lovely, thy rocks become fair. 



NAPOLEON. 

The following stanzas are a translation of part of a 
noble ode, written for the fifth of May, the anniversary 
of Napoleon's death, by Manzoni, the celebrated Italian, 
poet and novelist : 

The stormy joy, the trembling hope, 
That wait on mightiest enterprise ; 
The panting heart of one whose scope 

Was empire, and who gained the prize 
And grasped a crown of which it seemed 
Scarce less than madness to have dreamed — 
All these were his ; glory that shone 

The brighter for its perils past ; 
The rout, the victory, the throne. 

The gloom of banishment at last — 
Twice in the very dust abased. 
And twice on fortune's altar raised. 

His name was heard ; and mute with fear 

Two warring centuries stood by. 
Submissive from his mouth to hear 

The sentence of their destiny ; 
While he bade silence be, and sate 
Betw^een them, arbiter of fate. 

He passed, and on this barren rock 
Inactive closed his proud career, 
A mark for envy's rudest shock ; 
For pity's warmest, purest tear ; 
496 



NAPOLEON. 

For hatred's unextinguished fire, 
And love that lives when all expire. 

As on the drowning seaman's head 

The wave comes thundering from on high — 
The wave to which, afar displayed. 

The wretch had turned his straining eye, 
And gazed along the gloomy main 
For some far sail, but gazed in vain — 
So on his soul came back the wave 

Of melancholy memory. 
How oft hath he essayed to grave 

His image for posterity, 
Till o'er th' eternal chronicle 
The weary hand desponding fell. 

How oft, what time the listless day 

Hath died, and in the lonely flood 
The Indian sun hath quenched his ray, 

With folded arms the hero stood ; 
While dreams of days no more to be 
Throng back into his memory. 

He sees his moving tents again, 

The leaguered walls around him lie, 
The squadrons gleaming o'er the plain. 

The ocean wave of cavalry, 
The rapid order promptly made, 
And with the speed of thought obeyed. 

Alas ! beneath its punishment. 

Perchance, the wearied soul had drooped. 
Despairing ; but a spirit sent 

From heaven to raise the wretched stooped 
And bore him where diviner air 
Breathes balm and comfort to despair. 



497 



NAPOLEON'S GRAVE. 

Under the willow at St. Helena Napoleon slept, wait- 
ing the time Avhen France would arise in her might, and 
demand his second return. It was desertion and treach- 
ery that accomplished his downfall. It was ingratitude 
and cowardice that consigned him to a living tomb. He 
who had been a generous victor to the many monarchs 
he had vanquished on the field of battle, in that he per- 
mitted them to retain their crowns, was, during his dreary 
exile, and at his death, without a friend among them all. 
Not one raised a hand to lessen the anguish of his soul 
during those last awful days. Not one but rejoiced when 
they knew him dead. The history of Napoleon's exile 
at St. Helena is an especial shame to England ; but Prus- 
sia, Austria, and Russia cannot escape censure. They 
could have insisted upon a different course of treatment 
for their old foe; they could have demanded, at least, an 
honourable exile for the man who had spared them in his 
days of power; the man who had voluntarily given him- 
self up, expecting justice, but not torture. St. Helena, 
as the tomb of Napoleon, became a place of interest to- 
the whole world, and visitors went there to get but a 
glimpse of the unmarked grave of the man who so lately 
had held the fate of Europe within the hollow of his 
498 



NAPOLEON'S GRA VE. 499 

hands. Poems without number were written, having for 
their subject the illustrious dead. The following we think 
one of the best : 

napoleon's grave. 

Richard Henry Wilde. 

Faint and sad was the moonbeam's smile, 

Sullen the moan of the dying wave, 
Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle, 

As I stood by the side of Napoleon's grave. 

And is it here that the hero lies. 

Whose name has shaken the earth with dread ? 
And is this all that the earth supplies, — 

A stone his pillow, the turf his bed ? 

Is such the moral of human life ? 

Are these the limits of glory's reign ? 
Have oceans of blood, and an age of strife, 

And a thousand battles been all in vain ? 

Is nothing left of his victories now 

But legions broken, a sword in rust, 
A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow, 

A name and a requiem, dust to dust ? 

Of all the chieftains whose thrones he rear'd. 

Was there none that kindness or faith could bind ? 

Of all the monarchs whose crowns he spared. 
Had none one spark of his Roman mind ? 

Did Prussia cast no repentant glance, 
Did Austria shed no remorseful tear, 

When England's truth, and thine honour, France, 
And thy friendship, Russia, were blasted here ? 



500 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

No holy leagues like the heathen heaven 
Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock ; 

And glorious Titan, the unforgiven, 

Was doom'd to his vulture and chains and rock. 

And who were the gods that decreed thy doom ? 

A German Caesar, a Prussian sage. 
The dandy prince of a counting-room, 

And a Russian Greek of earth's darkest age. 

Men call'd thee Despot, and call'd thee true ; 

But the laurel was earn'd that bound thy brow : 
And of all who wore it, alas ! how few 

Were freer from treason and guilt than thou ! 

Shame to thee, Gaul, and thy faithless horde ! 

Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore? 
Fraud still lurks in the gown, but the sword 

Was never so false to its trust before. 

Where was thy veterans' boast that day, 

" The Old Guard dies, but it never yields "? 

Oh, for one heart like the brave Dessaix, 
One phalanx like those of thine early fields! 

But, no, no, no ! It was Freedom's charm 
Gave them the courage of more than men ; 

You broke the spell that twice nerved each arm, 
Though you were invincible only then. 

Yet St. Jean was a deep, not a deadly blow ; 

One struggle, and France all her faults repairs ; 
But the wild Fayette and the stern Carnot 

Are dupes, and ruin thy fate and theirs! 



Napoleon II., Duke of Reichstaut. 
From an engraving by Ramus, after l'hili]ipoteaux. 

I'aris (no date). 



ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
REICHSTADT. 

On the twenty-second of July, 1832, Napoleon's son, the 
Duke of Reichstadt, died, a prisoner, virtually, in the 
hands of the Austrian Government. Born King of Rome 
and heir to the mightiest empire on earth, he died an 
Austrian Prince ; an exile, stripped of the title that was 
his by birth, and bearing that of a foreign country. With 
his death the house of Napoleon, in a direct line, ceased 
to exist. When Napoleon was sent to Elba the Empress 
Marie Louise took the young King of Rome and went to 
the home of her father, the Emperor of Austria. He 
gave her Schonbrunn for a residence, and, by a treaty 
among the Allies, she was made Duchess of Parma for 
life. Hardly had she quitted France ere her love for 
Napoleon, if ever she had such a feeling, was transferred 
to the Count de Neipperg, a general in the service of 
Francis H., and when Napoleon died, she married this 
Austrian. The Count and her children by him were 
always first in her affections. Napoleon was forgotten, 
and his son, deserted by his mother, was left to the care 
of his grandfather, who, fortunately, had a real love for 
the young Prince. Brought up and educated as an Aus- 
trian subject, the Duke of Reichstadt entered the army 
501 



502 -■/ METRICAL IH STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

of that nation as soon as his age would permit. But an 
Austrian education and an Austrian uniform never for a 
moment effaced from the mind of the Duke the fact that 
his father had been Emperor of France, and that he was 
his heir. A true Frenchman he lived, and a loyal son he 
died. When he was at the point of death he said, sadly, 
" My birth and my death — that is all my history." But 
what an eventful history it was ! At his birth, Paris and 
all France went wild with enthusiasm. The twenty-second 
roar of the gun, which told the people of Paris that the 
Empress had given Napoleon a son instead of a daughter, 
was the occasion for unbounded rejoicing. Never was 
babe born with brighter prospects for a brilliant future, 
and yet four years were to cover his reign as King of 
Rome ; Napoleon II. he was never to be ; as Duke of Reich- 
stadt, an Austrian Prince, he was to live and die. He 
was not at Paris to greet his father upon his return from 
Elba; nor, dead, was he allowed to sleep with him upon 
his return from St. Helena. The fate of the son was truly 
as sad as that of the father. 



ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. 

Emma C. Embury. 

Heir of that name 
Which shook with sudden terror the far earth, 
Child of strange destinies e'en from thy birth. 

When kings and princes round thy cradle came, 
And gave their crowns, as playthings, to thine hand, 
Thine heritage the spoils of many a land ! 



ON THE DEA TH OF THE DUKE OF REICHSTADT. 503 

How were the schemes 
Of human foresight baffled in thy fate, 
Thou victim of a parent's lofty state ! 

What glorious visions filled thy father's dreams 
When first he gazed upon thy infant face, 
And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race ! 

Scarce had thine eyes 
Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound 
With power's vain symbols, and thy young brow crowned 

With Rome's imperial diadem — the prize 
From priestly princes by tliy proud sire won. 
To deck the pillow of his cradled son. 

Yet where is now 
The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, 
And led on half the world to stirring fight, 

Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow ? 
Alas ! when foiled on his last battle plain, 
Its shattered fragments forged thy father's chain \ 

Far worse tJiy fate 
Than that which doomed him to the barren rock ; 
Through half the universe was felt the shock 

When down he toppled from his high estate ; 
And the proud thought of still acknowledged power 
Could cheer him e'en in that disastrous hour. 

But thou, poor boy ! 
Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours; 
Thy chains still galled, tho' wreathed with fairest 
flowers ; 
Thou hadst no images of by-gone joy. 
No vision of anticipated fame, 
To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. 



504 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

And where was she 
Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife? 
She who first gave, and should have watched, thy life. 

Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee. 
Despoiled heir of Empire ? On her breast 
Did thy }-oung head repose in its unrest? 

No ! round her heart 
Children of humbler, happier lineage twined ; 
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind 
Of pageants where she bore a heartless part ; 
She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom 
Cared little for her first-born's living tomb. 

Tho.u art at rest ! 
Child of Ambition's martyr, life had been 
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene 

Of doubt and dread and suffering at the best ; 
For thou wert one whose path, in these dark times. 
Would lead to sorrows — it may be to crimes. 

Thou art at rest ! 
The idle sword has worn its sheath away ; 
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay ; 

And they who with vain tyranny comprest 
Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear. 
And fling Ambition's purple o'er thy bier ! 



THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON. 

In 1830, when the French nation drove the Bourbons 
from the throne, and placed the crown upon the head of 
Louis PhiHppe, the "Citizen King," a petition was pre- 
sented to the Chamber of Deputies, requesting that the 
remains of Napoleon might be demanded of the British 
government and restored to France. From that time 
until the demand was actually made, and acquiesced in by 
England, there was no cessation of Napoleonic enthusiasm. 

In 1 83 1 a national ordinance was passed, decreeing that 
the statue of Napoleon which had adorned the Column 
Vendome, and which the Allies had torn down, and in 
derision dragged in the mud of the streets, should be re- 
placed. In 1833, in accordance with that decree, "Na- 
poleon in Bronze " was again at the top of that column 
erected in commemoration of the gallant deeds of the 
Grand Army. 

Barbier did not echo the voice of the people in the 
following lines. He spoke as a hater of the man who 
made France what she is to-day; of the man who, with 
all his faults, laboured only for his country, and in order 
that she might rise among the greatest nations of the 
world and stand their equal. France to-day proves Bar- 
505 



5o6 A METRICAL HI STORY OF NAPOLEON. 

bier wrong and Napoleon right. The Bourbons are gone 
forever, and France, a glorious republic, is but reaping 
what her greatest leader sowed years ago. 

THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON. 

Augusts Barbiek. 

Come, stoker, come, more coal, more fuel, heap 

Iron and copper at our need ! 
Come, your broad shovel and your long arms steep. 

Old Vulcan, in the forge you feed ! 
To your wide furnace be full portion thrown ; 

To bid her sluggish teeth to grind, 
Tear, and devour the weight which she doth own, 

A fire palace she must find. 
'T is well, 't is here ! the flame, wide, wild, intense, 

Unsparing, and blood-coloured, flung 
From the vault down, where the assaults commence 

With lingot up to lingot clung. 
And bounds and bowlings of delirium born ; 

Lead, copper, iron, mingled well. 
All twisting, lengthening, and embraced, and torn 

And tortured, like the damned in hell! 
The work is done ! the spent flame burns no more ; 

The furnace fires smoke and die ; 
The iron flood boils over. Ope the dooj-, 

And let the haughty one pass by ! 
Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course! 

A bound, and from your dwelling past 
Dash forward, like a torrent from its source, 

A flame from the volcano cast ! 
To gulp your lava-waves earth's jaws extend, 

Your fury in one mass fling forth ! 
In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend, 

An emperor return to earth ! 



THE BRONZE ST A TUE OF NAPOLEON. 507 

Again Napoleon, — 't is his form appears ! 

Hard soldier in unending quarrel, 
Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears^ 

For only a few boughs of laurel ! 

For mourning France it was a day of grief 

When, down from its high station flung^ 
His mighty statue, like some shameful thief^ 

In coils of a vile rope was hung; 
When we beheld at the grand column's base,. 

And o'er a shrieking cable bowed, 
The stranger's strength that mighty bronze displace 

To hurrahs of a foreign crowd ; 
Wlien, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost thrown. 

The proud mass cast in monarch mould 
Made sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stone 

Its iron carcass sternly rolled. 
The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin. 

Ignoble fury in his glance, 
The Emperor's form, the kennel's filth within. 

Drew after him, in face of France ! 
On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign. 

That hour like remorse must weigh 
On each French brow ; 't is the eternal stain, 

Which only death can wash away ! 
I saw, where palace walls gave shade and ease, 

The waggons of the foreign force ; 
I saw them strip the bark which clothed our treeSp 

To cast it to their hungry horse. 
I saw the Northman, with his savage lip, 

Bruising our flesh till black with gore. 
Our bread devour ; on our nostrils sip 

The air which was our own before! 
In the abasement and the pain, the weight 

Of outrages no words make known, 



508 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

I charged only one being with my hate : 

Be thou accursed, Napoleon ! 
O lank-haired Corsican, your France was fair 

In the full sun of Messidor ! 
She was a tameless and a rebel mare, 

Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore ; 
Wild steed with rustic flank ; yet, while she 
trod, 

Reeking with blood of royalty. 
But proud with strong foot striking the old sod. 

At last, and for the first time, free, 
Never a hand, her virgin form passed o'er, 

Left blemish nor affront essayed ; 
And never her broad sides the saddle bore. 

Nor harness by the stranger made. 
A noble vagrant, with coat smooth and bright. 

And nostril red, and action proud, 
As high she reared, she did the world affright 

With neighings which rang long and loud. 
You came ; her mighty loins, her paces scanned, 

Phant and eager for the track ; 
Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand. 

You sprang all booted to her back. 
Then, as she loved the war's exciting sound, 

The smell of powder and the drum, 
You gave her earth for exercising ground, 

Bade battles as her pastime come ! 
Then, no repose for her; no nights, no sleep ! 

The air and toil forevermore ! 
And human forms like unto sand crushed deep. 

And blood which rose her chest before ! 
Through fifteen years her hard hoofs' rapid course 

So ground the generations. 
And she passed, smoking in her speed and force. 

Over the breast of nations ; 



THE BRONZE STA TUE OF NAPOLEON. 509 

Till, tired in ne'er earned goal to place vain trust, 

To tread a path ne'er left behind, 
To knead the universe and like a dust 

To uplift scattered human kind, 
Feebly and worn, and gasping as she strode, 

Stumbling each step of her career, 
She craved for rest the Corsican who rode. 

But, torturer, you would not hear ! 
You pressed her harder with your nervous thigh, 

You tightened more the goading bit, 
Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry. 

And brake her teeth in fury-fit. 
She rose, but the strife came. From farther fall 

Saved not the curb she could not know ; 
She went down, pillowed on the cannon-ball. 

And thou wert broken by the blow ! 

Now born again, from depths where thou wert hurled, 

A radiant eagle dost thou rise ; 
Winging thy flight again to rule the world. 

Thine image reascends the skies. 
No longer now the robber of a crown, — 

The insolent usurper, — he. 
With cushions of a throne, unpitying, down 

Who pressed the throat of Libert}', — 
Old slave of the Alliance, sad and lone. 

Who died upon a sombre rock, 
And France's image until death dragged on 

For chain, beneath the stranger's stroke, — 
Napoleon stands, unsullied by a stain ! 

Thanks to the flatterer's tuneful race, 
The lying poets who ring praises vain. 

Has Csesar 'mong the gods found place ! 
His image to the city walls gives light ; 

His name has made the city's hum, — 



5IO A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Still sounded ceaselessly, as through the flight 

It echoed farther than the drum. 
From the high suburbs, where the people crowd, 

Doth Paris, an old pilgrim now, 
Each day descend to greet the pillar proud. 

And humble there his monarch brow ; 
The arms encumbered with a mortal wreath. 

With flowers for that bronze's pall. 
(No mothers look on, as they pass beneath, — 

It grew, beneath their tears, so tall !) 
In working-vest, in drunkenness of soul, 

Unto the fife's and trumpet's tone. 
Doth joyous Paris dance the Carmagnole 

Around the great Napoleon. 

Thus, gentle monarchs, pass unnoted on ! 

Mild pastors of mankind, away ! 
Sages, depart, as common brows have gone. 

Devoid of the immortal ray ! 
For vainly you make light the people's chain ; 

And vainly, like a calm flock, come 
On your own footsteps, without sweat or pain. 

The people, treading towards their tomb. 
Soon as your star dotii to its setting glide. 

And its last lustre shall be given 
By your quenched name, upoh the popular tide 

Scarce a faint furrow shall be riven. 
Pass, pass ye on ! For you no statue high ! 

Your names shall vanish from the horde : 
Theif memory is for those who lead to die 

Beneath the cannon and the sword ; 
Their love for him who on the humid field 

By thousands lays to rot their bones ; 
For him who bids them pyramids to build. 

And bear upon their backs the stones ! 



THE DISINTERMENT. 

" It is my wish that my ashes may repose on the banks 
of the Seine, in the midst of the French people whom I 
have loved so well." The time had come when Napoleon 
was about to have his wish fulfilled. The people of 
France, who had so shamefully deserted their chief in 
his hour of greatest need, were about to make amends. 
On the fifth of May, 1840, the anniversary of the great 
Emperor's death, France formally demanded of England 
the ashes of her beloved dead. England, ofificially recog- 
nising Napoleon's title as Emperor, and no longer speak- 
ing of him in derision as " General Bonaparte," at once 
granted the request. Thus, though dead, he had, at last, 
gained the victory over his bitterest foe. Immediately, 
two war vessels were prepared to carry out the sacred 
duty of bringing home the body of the " Emperor Na- 
poleon," ^nd with the Prince de Joinville, a son of the 
King, in command, accompanied by the younger Las 
Casas, Gourgaud, and Bertrand, the expedition set out 
for St. Helena. On the eighth of October the two vessels 
dropped anchor in the harbour of that island. Every- 
thing being prepared for the important operation, at half- 
past twelve o'clock in the morning of the fifteenth of 
October, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the arrival of 
Napoleon at St. Helena, the first blow was struck which 
was to open the grave and give liberty to the hero, who 
511 



512 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

had slept there so long, in order that his dying wish 
might prevail — that his ashes might repose in the midst 
of the people he loved so well. After nine hours of un- 
interrupted labour the work of exhumation was accom- 
plished, and the coffin containing the remains of the 
great warrior was removed from its tomb, and placed 
under a tent erected near by for its reception. Here the 
difTerent enclosures were opened and the body of the 
Emperor exposed to view. How great the surprise and 
astonishment of his old comrades when they looked and 
beheld their Emperor lying before them as they had 
beheld him, as they supposed, for the last time, nineteen 
years before ! The body was perfectly preserved, and 
the features so life-like and natural that one would sup- 
pose it was the first instead of the second funeral that 
was, taking place. After the body had been identified, 
the cofifin was again closed, and the ceremonies continued, 
leading up to and including the surrender of the remains 
of the Emperor by the Governor of the island, in the 
name of the British Government, to France. From that 
moment the same honours which the Emperor had re- 
ceived while living were paid to his mortal remains. On 
the eighteenth of October, with their precious charge 
safely on board, the French vessels left St. Helena. 

THE DISINTERMENT. 

Bartholomew Simmons. 

Lost Lord of Song! who grandly gave 
Thy matchless timbrel for the spear. 

And, by old Hellas' hallow'd wave 
Died at the feet of Freedom, hear! 



THE DISINTERMENT. 513 

Hear from thy lone and lonely tomb, 

Where 'mid thy own " inviolate isle," 
Beneath no minster's marble gloom, 

No banner's golden smile, 
Far from the swarming city's crowd, 
Thy glory round thee for a shroud, 
Thou sleep'st, the pious rustic's tread 
The only echo o'er thy bed, 
Save, few and faint, when o'er the foam 
The Pilgrims of thy genius come. 
From distant earth, with tears of praise, 
The homage of their hearts to raise, 
And curse the country's very name, 

Unworthy of thy sacred dust, 
That draws such lustre from thy fame, 

That heaps such outrage on thy bust ! 
Wake from the dead, and lift thy brow 
With the same scornful beauty now 
As when beneath thy shafts of pride 
Envenomed Cant — the Python — died ! 
Prophet no less than, bard, behold 
Matured the eventful moment, told 
In those divine predictive words, 
Pour'd to thy lyre's transcendant chords: 
" If e'er his awful ashes can grow cold — 
But no, their embers soon shall burst their 

mould. 
France shall feel the want 
Of this last consolation, though but scant 
Her honour! Fame and faith demand his bones, 
To pile above a pyramid of thrones ! " 
If, then, from thy neglected bier. 
One humblest follower thou canst hear, 
O Mighty Master ! rise and flee, 

Swift as some meteor bold and bright, 

33 



514 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

One fragile cloud attending thee, 

Across the dusky tracks of night, 
To where the sunset's latest radiance shone 
O'er Afric's sea interminably lone. 
Below that broad unbroken sea 

Long since the sultry sun has dropp'd, 
And now in dread solemnity. 

As though its course Creation stopp'd 
One wondrous hour to watch the birth 
Of deeds portentous unto earth ; 
The moonless midnight far and wide 

Solidly black flings over all 
That giant waste of waveless tide 

Her melancholy pall, 
Whose folds in thickest gloom unfurl'd. 

Each ray of heaven's high face debar, 
Save, on the margin of the world 

Where leans yon solitary star, 
Large, radiant, restless, tingling with far smile 
The jagged cliffs of a green barren isle. 



Hark ! o'er the waves distinctly swell 

Twelve slow vibrations of a bell ! 

And out upon the silent ear 

At once ring bold and sharply clear, 

With shock more startling than if thunder 

Had split the slumbering earth asunder. 

And iron sounds of crow and bar; 

Ye scarce may know whence they come, 
Whether from island or from star, 

Both lie so hush'd and dumb! 
On, swift and deep, those echoes sweep. 
Shaking long-buried kings from sleep. 
Up, up, ye spectred jailers ! ho ! 

Your granite heaped his head in vain ; 



THE DISINTERMENT. 515 

The very grave gives back your foe — 

Dead Caesar wakes again ! 
The nations, with a voice as dread 

As that which once in Bethany 
Burst to the regions of the dead, 

And set the loved-one free. 
Have cried, " Come forth ! " and lo ! again, 
To smite the hearts and eyes of men 
With the old awe he once instill'd 
By many an unforgotten field. 
Napoleon's look shall startle day — 

That look that, where its anger fell, 
Scorch'd empires from the earth away 

As with the blasts of hell ! 
Up from the dust, ye sleepers ! ho ! 

By the blue Danube's stately wave. 
From Berlin's towers, from Moscow's snow. 

And Windsor's gorgeous grave ! 
Come, summoned by the omnific power, 
The spirit of this thrilling hour ; 
And, stooping from yon craggy height, 
Girt by each perish'd satellite. 
Each cunning tool of kingly terror, 
Who served your reigns of fraud and error, 
Behold, where with relentless lock 
Ye chain'd Prometheus to his rock ; 
And, when his tortured bosom ceased 
Your vulture's savage beak to feast, 
Where fathom-deep ye dug his cell, 

And built and barr'd his coffin down. 
Half doubting if even death could quell 

Such terrible renown ; 
Now 'mid the torch's solemn glare. 
And bended knee, and muttered prayer, 
Within that green sepulchral glen 
Uncover'd groups of warrior men 



5l6 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Breathless performed the high behest 
Of winning back, in priceless trust 

For the regenerated West, 
Your victim's mighty dust. 

Hark ! how they burst your cramps and rings ! 

Ha, ha ! ye bandied, baffled kings ! 

Stout men, delve on with axe and bar ! 
Ye 're watched from yonder restless star ; 
Hew the tough masonry away, 

Bid the tomb's ponderous portals fly ! 
And firm your sounding levers sway, 

And loud your clanking hammers ply ! 
Nor falter though the work be slow, 
Ye something gain at every blow, 
While deep each heart in chorus sings : 
" Ha, ha ! ye bandied, baffled kings ! " 
Brave men, delve in with axe and bar ! 
Ye 're watched from yonder glorious star. 

'T is morn ; the marble floor is cleft, 
And slight and short the labour left. 
'T is noon ; they wind the windlass now, 
To heave the granite from his brow. 
Back to each gazer's waiting heart 
The life-blood leaps with anxious start ; 
Down Bertrand's cheeks the tear-drop steals. 
Low in the dust Las Casas kneels. 
(Oh ! tried and trusted ! still, as long 

As the true heart's fidelity 
Shall form the theme of harp and song. 

High bards shall sing of ye! ) 
One moment, and thy beams, O sun, 
The bier of him shall look upon. 
Who, save the heaven-expelled, alone 
Dared envy thee thy blazing throne ! 



THE DISINTERMENT. 517 

Who haph- oft, with gaze intent, 

And sick from victory's vulgar war. 
Panted to sweep the firmament, 

And dash thee from thy car, 
And cursed the clay that still confined 
His narrow conquests to mankind. 

'T is done ; his chiefs are lifting now 
The shroud from that tremendous brow, 
That with the lightning's rapid might 
Illumed Marengo's awful night, 
Flash'd over Lodi's murderous bridge, 
Swept Prussia from red Jena's ridge, 
And broke once more the Austrian sword 
By Wagram's memorable ford. 
And may man's puny race that shook 
Before the terrors of that look, 
Approach unshrinking now, and see 
How far corruption's mastery 
Has tamed the tyrant tamer! 

Raise 

That silken cloud ; what meets the gaze? 
The scanty dust, or whitening bones, 

Or fleshless jaws' horrific mirth, 
Of him whose threshold rose on thrones, 

A mockery now to earth ? 
No ; even as though his haughty clay 
Scoff'd at the contact of decaj-, 
And from his mind's immortal flame 
Itself immortalised became, 
Tranquilly there Napoleon lies revealed. 
Like a king sleeping on his own proud shield, 
Harnessed for conflict, and that eagle-star. 
Whose fire-eyed Legion foremost waked the war. 



5l8 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Still on his bosom, tarnished, too, and dim, 
As if hot battle's cloud had lately circled him. 

Fast fades the vision ; from that glen 
Wind slow those aching-hearted men, 
While every mountain echo floats, 
Filled with the bugle's regal notes ; 
And now the gun's redoubled roar 

Tells the long peak and mighty main. 
Beneath his glorious tri-colour 

Napoleon rests again ! 
And France's galley soon shall sail, 
Shall spread triumphant to the gale. 
Till, lost upon the lingering eye. 
It melts and mingles in the sky. 

Let Paris, too, prepare a show, 
And deck her streets in gaudy woe ; 
And rear a more than kingly shrine. 

Whose taper's blaze shall ne'er be dim, 
And bid the sculptor's art divine 

Be lavished there for him. 

And let him take his rest serene 
(Even so he willed it) by the Seine ; 
But ever to the poet's heart, 

Or pilgrim musing o'er those pages 
(Replete with marvels) that impart 

His story unto ages ; 
The spacious azure of yon sea 
Alone his minster floor shall be. 
Coped by the stars ; red evening's smile 
His epitaph ; and thou, rude isle. 
Austerely browed and thunder-rent, 

Napoleon's only monument ! 



NAPOLEON'S RETURN. 

The voyage from St. Helena afforded only one incident 
of note. As the little fleet bearing the sacred relics was 
about crossing the equator a French frigate was met, 
which announced the startling news that there was grave 
probability war had already commenced between England 
and France over the Turkish-Egyptian treaty. It was at 
once resolved by the Prince de Joinville and those under 
him that, if the news should prove true, they would sink 
the vessel carrying the remains of the Emperor rather 
than surrender them again to England. Fortunately, 
the reported war cloud passed away, and France was 
reached in safety. Napoleon was again with his own. 

A complete collection of the poetry written on the sub- 
ject of Napoleon's return from St. Helena would fill a 
volume. The few selections which follow have been 
chosen as best suited to the purpose in view. 

napoleon's return. 

Miss Wallace. 

A bark has left the sea-girt isle, 

A prince is at the helm, 
She bears the exile emperor 

Back to his ancient realm. 
519 



520 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

No joyous shout bursts from her crew, 
As o'er the waves they dance, 

But silently, through foam and spray. 
Seek they the shores of France. 

A soldier comes! Haste, comrades, haste! 

To greet him on the strand ; 
'T is long since by his side ye fought 

For Glory's chosen land ; 
A leader comes ! Let loud huzzas 

Burst from the extended line. 
And glancing arms and hemlets raised 

In martial splendour shine. 

A conqueror comes ! Fh', Austrian, fly 

Before his awful frown ! 
Kneel, Lombard, kneel ! that pallid brow 

Has worn the Iron Crown ! 
The eagles wave I the trumpet sounds ! 

Amid the cannons' roar. 
Ye victors of a hundred fields. 

Surround your chief once more! 

A monarch comes ! From royal arms 

Remove the envious rust ; 
A monarch comes! the triple crown 

Is freed from gathering dust. 
Guard him not to the halls of state, 

His diadem is riven ; 
But bear him where yon hallowed spire 

Is pointing up to heaven : 
And with the requiem's plaintive swell, 

With dirge and solemn praj'er, 
Enter the marble halls of death, 

And throne your monarch there ! 



NAPOLEON'S RETURN. 52I 

Napoleon comes ! Go, speak that word 

At midnight's awful hour; 
In Champ de Mars will it not prove 

A spell of fearful power? 
Will not a shadowy host arise 

From field and mountain ridge, 
From Waterloo, from Austerlitz, 

From Lodi's fatal bridge. 
And wheel in airy echelon, 

From pass and height and plain, 
To form upon that ancient ground 



Go speak it in the Louvre's halls, 

'Mid priceless works of art ; 
Will not each lifelike figure from 

The glowing canvas start ? 
Go to Versailles, where heroes frown, 

And monarchs live, in stone ; 
Across those chiselled lips will not 

A startling murmur run ? 
No, no, the marble still may be 
Cold, cold and silent. So is he. 
The pencil's living hues may bloom. 
But his have faded in the tomb ; 
And warriors in their narrow homes 
Sleep, reckless that their leader comes. 

Napoleon comes! but Rhine's pure flood 
Rolls on without a tinge of blood ; 
The Pyramids still frown in gloom 
And grandeur o'er an empty tomb ; 
And sweetly now the moonbeam smiles 
Upon the fair Venetian isles. 



522 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Napoleon comes ! but Moscow's spires 
Have ceased to glow with hostile fires ; 
No spirit, in a whisper deep, 
Proclaims it where the Caesars sleep ; 
No sign from column, tower, or dome,— 
A man that once was feared at Rome, — 
For life and power have passed away, 
And he is here, a king of clay. 

He will not wake at war's alarms, 

Its music or its moans ; 
He will not wake when Europe hears 

The crash of crumbling thrones 
And institutions gray with age 

Are numbered with forgotten things, 
And privilege and " right divine " 

Rest with the people, not their kings. 

Now raise the imperial monument, 

Fame's tribute to the brave ; 
The warrior's place of pilgrimage 

Shall be Napoleon's grave. 
France, envying long his island tomb 

Amid the lonely deep. 
Has gained at last the treasured dust ! 

Sleep ! mighty mortal, sleep ! 



THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 

Early in the morning of November 30, 1840, the Belle 
Poule and the Favourite anchored in the harbour of Cher- 
bourg ; where, on the eighth of December, the remains of 
the mighty dead were transferred from the Belle Poule to 
the steamer Norinandie, and from whence the voyage up 
the Seine began. At Havre the body was again trans- 
ferred to the smaller vessel especially prepared to carry 
the dead Emperor to the gates of Paris. The journey up 
the Seine was a series of continued ovations and demon- 
strations of welcome. The people for miles around 
flocked to the river to greet and to pay homage to the 
remains of the man who had done so much for them and 
for their country in the days of his power. On the four- 
teenth the flotilla, consisting of twelve vessels, reached 
Courbevoie, a small village about four miles from Paris. 
Here the remains were transferred from the steamer to 
the shore. The preparations for receiving the illustrious 
dead, and for escorting the " Emperor Napoleon " to his 
last resting place were of a kind unparalleled in history. 
The story of the Second Funeral has been told so many 
times, in poetry and in prose, that it were idle to repeat 
it, in detail, here. The fifteenth of December, 1840, was 
a day such as Paris never before or ever again shall wit- 
523 



524 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

ness. The entire population of the city took part in the 
celebration, for celebration it truly was. Over one 
hundred thousand soldiers were present on this great 
national occasion. The veterans of the armies of Italy 
and of Egypt, of Spain and of Russia, — heroes of the 
Pyramids, Marengo, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram, Moscow, 
and Waterloo, — were there to welcome their dead chief. 
Every member of the reigning family was at the Inva- 
lides ; but the dead warrior alone represented Jiis family. 
Visitors from all parts of the world were in Paris. All 
were free to come, except the brothers and nephews of 
him to whose memory these honours were paid ; they 
were still proscribed, — in exile or in prison. 

The following poem, by an unknown author, tells the 
story of the Second Funeral in a clear and graphic 
manner : 

THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 

Anon. 

Cold and brilliant streams the sunlight on the wintry banks 

of Seine, 
Gloriously the imperial city rears her pride of tower and 

fane ; 
Solemnly, with deep voice, pealeth Notre Dame, thine 

ancient chime, 
Minute guns the death-bell answer in the same deep, 

measured time. 

On the unwonted stillness gather sounds of an advancing 

host. 
As the rising tempest chafeth on St. Helen's far-off coast ; 



THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 525 

Nearer rolls a mighty pageant, clearer swells the funeral 

strain, 
From the barrier arch of Neuilly pours the giant burial 

train. 

Dark with eagles is the sunlight, darkly on the golden air 

Flap the folds of faded standards; eloquently mourning 
there. 

O'er the pomp of glittering thousands, like a battle-phan- 
tom f^its 

Tatter'd flag of Jena, Friedland, Areola, and Austerlitz. 

Eagle-crown'd and garland-circled, slowly moves the 

stately car, 
'Mid a sea of plumes and horsemen, all the burial pomp 

of war ; 
Riderless, a war-worn charger follows his dead master's 

bier — 
Long since battle-trumpet roused him — he but lived to 

follow here. 

From his grave 'mid ocean's dirges, moaning surge and 

sparkling foam, 
Lo, the Imperial Dead returneth ! Lo, the Hero's dust 

comes home ! 
He hath left the Atlantic island, lonely vale and willow tree, 
'Neath the Invalides to slumber, 'mid the Gallic Chivalry. 

Glorious tomb o'er glorious sleepers ! gallant fellowship 

to share — 
Paladin and Peer and Marshal — France, thy noblest dust 

is there ! 
Names that light thy battle annals ! Names that shook 

the heart of earth ! 
Stars in crimson War's horizon — synonyms for martial 

worth ! 



526 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Room within that shrine of heroes ! place, pale spectres 

of the past ! 
Homage yield, ye battle-phantoms ! Lo, your mightiest 

comes at last ! 
Was his course the Woe out-thunder'd from prophetic 

trumpet's lips ? 
Was his type the ghostly horseman shadow'd in the 

Apocalypse ? 

Gray-hair'd soldiers gather round him, relics of an age of 

war, 
P'oUowers of the Victor-Eagle, when his flight was wild 

and far ; 
Men who panted in the death-strife on Rodrigo's bloody 

ridge, 
Hearts that sicken'd at the death-shriek from the Russian's 

shatter'd bridge. 

Men who heard the immortal war-cry of the wild Egyptian 

f^ght : 
" Forty centuries o'erlook us from yon Pyramid's gray 

height." 
They who heard the moans of JafTa, and the breach of 

Acre knew. 
They who rushed their foaming war-steeds on the squares 

of Waterloo — 

They who loved him, they who fear'd him, they who in 

his dark hour fled. 
Round the mighty burial gather, spell-bound by the awful 

Dead ! 
Churchmen, Princes, Statesmen, Warriors, all a kingdom's 

chief array. 
And the Fox stands, crowned Mourner, by the Eagle's 

hero-clay. 



THE SECOND FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 527 

But the kist high rite is paid him, and the last deep knell 
is rnng,— 

And the cannons' iron voices have their thunder-requiem 
sung — 

And 'mid banners idly drooping, silent gloom and moul- 
dering state, 

Shall the Trampler of the world upon the Judgment- 
trumpet wait. 

Yet his ancient foes had given him nobler monumental 

pile, 
Where the everlasting dirges moan'd around the burial 

Isle- 
Pyramid upheaved by Ocean in his loneliest wilds afar. 
For the War-King thunder-stricken from his fiery battle- 
car ! 



THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. 
HELENA. 

As Thackeray has given us, in prose, his version of 
what he saw at the Second Funeral of Napoleon, and 
how the whole arrangement impressed him ; so Mrs. 
Sigourney has told us, in poetry, of what she beheld on 
that occasion, and how it all impressed her. 

THE RETURN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. HELENA. 

Lydia H. Sigourney. 

Ho ! city of the gay ! 

Paris ! what festal rite 
Doth call thy thronging million forth, 

All eager for the sight ? 
Thy soldiers line the streets 

In fixed and stern array, 
With buckled helm and bayonet. 

As on the battle-day. 

By square and fountain side, 

Heads in dense masses rise ; 
And tower and battlement and tree 

Are studded thick with eyes. 
Comes there some conqueror home 

In triumph from the fight. 
With spoil and captives in his train, 

The trophies of his might ? 
528 



RETURN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. HELENA. 529 

The " Arc de Triomphe " glows ! 

A martial host are nigh ! 
France pours in long succession forth 

Her pomp of chivalry. 
No clarion marks their way, 

No victor trump is blown ; 
Why march they on so silently, 

Told by their tread alone ? 

Behold ! in glittering show, 

A gorgeous car of state ! 
The white-plumed steeds, in cloth of gokl. 

Bow down beneath its weight ; 
And the noble war-horse, led 

Caparisoned along. 
Seems fiercely for his lord to ask. 

As his red eye scans the throng. 

Who rideth on yon car ? 

The incense flameth high. 
Comes there some demi-god of old ? 

No answer ! no reply ! 
Who rideth on yon car ? 

No shout his minions raise, 
But by a lofty chapel dome 

The mufifled hero stays. 

A king is standing there, 

And, with uncovered head. 
Receives him in the name of France : 

Receiveth whom? — The dead ? 
Was he not buried deep 

In island cavern drear, 
Girt by the sounding ocean surge ? 

How- came that sleeper here ? 
34 



530 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Was there no rest for him 

Beneath a peaceful pall, 
That thus he brake his stony tomb, 

Ere the strong angel's call? 
Hark ! Hark ! the requiem swells, 

A deep, soul-thrilling strain ! 
An echo never to be heard 

By mortal ear again. 

A requiem for the chief 

Whose fiat millions slew — 
The soaring eagle of the Alps, 

The crushed at Waterloo ; 
The banished who returned, 

The dead who rose again. 
And rode in his shroud the billows proud. 

To the sunny banks of Seine. 

They laid him there in state. 

That warrior strong and bold — 
The imperial crown, with jewels bright. 

Upon his ashes cold ; 
While round those columns proud 

The blazoned banners wave, 
That on a hundred fields he won. 

With the heart's-blood of the brave. 

And sternly there kept guard 

His veterans scarred and old, 
Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge, 

Or purple Leipsic told. 
Yes, there, with arms reversed, 

Slow pacing, night and day. 
Close watch beside the coffin kept 

Those veterans grim and gra}-. 



RETURN OF NAPOLEON FROM ST. HELENA. 53 I 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
Or memory of the fearful strife, 

Where their country's legions fled ? 
Of Borodino's blood ? 

Of Beresina's wail ? 
The horrors of that dire retreat, 

Which turned old History pale? 

A cloud is on their brow, — 

Is it sorrow for the dead ? 
Or a shuddering at the wintry shaft 

By Russian tempests sped ? 
Where countless mounds of snow 

Marked the poor conscripts' grave, 
And, pierced by frost and famine, sank 

The bravest of the brave I 

A thousand trembling lamps 

The gathered darkness mock. 
And velvet drapes his hearse, who died 

On bare Helena's rock; 
And from the altar near, 

A never-ceasing hymn 
Is lifted by the chanting priests 

Beside the taper dim. 

Mysterious One, and proud ! 

In the land where shadows reign, 
Hast thou met the flocking ghosts of those 

Who at thy nod were slain? 
Oh ! when the cry of that spectral host, 

Like a rushing blast shall be, 
What will thine answer be to them? 

And what thy God's to thee ? 



INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OF THE 
EMPEROR. 

" The return of the dead Napoleon to his capital has 
excited an interest scarcely inferior to that which shook 
the world at his return from Elba. Poets have chosen it 
as the theme of their loftiest flights ; orators catch new 
eloquence from its inspiration ; politicians shake their 
heads and talk mysteriously of consequences which will — 
not come to pass. But among the numerous productions 
to which this sublime event has given rise, none is more 
remarkable than the Invocation penned by Prince Louis 
Napoleon in his prison. The original is not in verse, but 
it is rich with the higher elements of poetry, which we 
trust will be recognised in the spirited version of our 
}-oung correspondent. With the political opinions and 
views of the Prince we have nothing to do. That he is 
wanting in common prudence is pretty generally con- 
ceded ; but, at the same time, there are indications that 
he possesses genius of a high order, and which, directed 
to literary pursuits, might insure him a more extensive 
empire in the minds of men than he has any prospect of 
ever exercising with sword or sceptre. His speech on his 
trial, though deficient in reasoning, is a masterpiece of 
eloquence; and the same quality is conspicuous in all his 
writings." 



INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OE THE EMPEROR. 533 

Events which have transpired in France since the above 
was written, prove how often contemporary opinions of 
men and things differ from what is actually to happen. 
The " Nephew of his Uncle " did reign in France as 
Emperor for twenty years, and he proved himself capable 
of doing something besides being a literary genius. 



INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OF THE EMPEROR. 
(By Prince Louis Napoleon.) 

Translated by James Nack. 

Hail, sire ! thou to thy cherished France, 
Again in triumph dost advance, 
While old and young, with song and shout. 
To welcome thee are thronging out ; 
And all but those who share thy name 
The precious privilege may claim 
To cluster round the sacred bed 
That bears the mightiest of the dead ! 
But I, deep in a dungeon's gloom, 
Less welcome far than glory's tomb ; 
Oh, scarce on me one ray may fall 
That lights thy gorgeous funeral ! 

Chief of our house — and of mankind — 

Oh, let us not thy censure find. 

If none of the imperial line 

Attends thee to thy final shrine ! 

Thy exile and thy every pain 

Closed with thy life — but ours remain — 



534 ^-^ METRICAL HISrORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Far from thy friends and from thy land, 
And far from every kindred hand ; 
No wife to breathe affection's sighs, 
No son to close thy awful eyes ; 
From Helen's rock and England's rod 
Thy injured spirit rushed to God ! 

The hero, through all perils tried. 
Whose love thy absent son's supplied, 
Montholon, once thy prison-mate. 
Now shares a humbler captive's fate. 
Alas ! how can they honour thee. 
Nor set thy faithful veteran free ! 

Returning to thy cherished shore. 
To reign till time shall be no more ; 
When every ship and fort unfurled 
The tri-colour that won the world, 
A moment's life again was given, 
As with electric fire from heaven. 
Thy marble head a moment raised ; 
Thine eyes, unlocked, a moment gazed ; 
But on their view no eagle came, 
Winging its flight to Notre-Dame ! 
They sought some kindred face in vain, 
Then sadly closed to sleep again. 

Yet not till passed before their glance 
The youthful chivalry of France, 
Whose fathers, as it is their pride 
To boast, have battled at thy side ; 
Nor should'st thou deem the father's fire 
So soon can in the sons expire ; 
Though every sword sleeps in its sheath. 
For thoughts may burn that may not breathe 



INVOCATION TO THE SHADE OF THE EMPEROR. 533 

And while the dazzling phantom flits, 
Of Jena, or of Austerlitz ; 
The flower of France must hail the sun 
Of glory in Napoleon ! 

But as for those whom thou hast seen 
So great, and findest now so mean, 
Whose greatness was upon them thrown 
By thee — whose meanness is their own — 
Those who renounce with shameless face 
Thy creed, thy glory, and thy race. 
Who when I sought them, in thy name. 
Invoking liberty and fame. 
Could tell me and the outraged land, 
" These are not things we understand ! " 

Oh heed them not though they should say,. 
Nor their renown has pass'd away. 
That thine was but a meteor's light, 
Which hastens to oblivion's night. 
'T is not for such to harm thy name, 
And only such could wrong thy fame, 
Whose bright immortal heritage 
Shall crown thy race in every age ! 

A memorable day shall be 

This day, alike to France and me ! 

While pomp and pageantry and pride 

Surround thy bier on every side. 

Thy glance is turned where, walled in stone 

And darkness, friendless and alone. 

Reclines thy brother's favourite child, 

On whom thy face benignly smiled. 

When, young and fearless, fond and free, 

He clung about thy honoured knee ! 



536 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Yet even here I may rejoice ; 

There comes a whisper of thy voice, 

The silent sohtude to break : 

" My friend, thy wrongs are for my sake, 

And I approve what thou hast done 

For France and for Napoleon ! " 



NAPOLEON. 

Under the dome of the Invahdes, Napoleon sleeps ; 
never, in all human probability, to be again disturbed. 
Surrounded by the gallant warriors who made his won- 
derful fame possible, he is at rest on the banks of the 
Seine, his last earthly wish fulfilled. The impress he left 
upon France and the world will endure while time lasts. 
He has been judged by many able critics, and the verdict 
has been both for and against him. That he was one of 
the greatest men who ever lived, there can be no ques- 
tion. Whether he used the mighty genius, with which he 
was endowed, for the good of France and of mankind, or 
whether the satisfying of his personal ambition was the 
only end he had in view, are questions still unsettled. We 
are inclined to the belief that the yet unwritten history 
of Napoleon will be the true one, and that the verdict 
yet to come will accord to him the place given him in the 
following lines : 

NAPOLEON. 

R. S. S. Andros. 

There be who call thee Tyrant, and would fain 
The hateful word upon thy tomb engrave ; 
And others yet there be who name thee slave 

Of power and mad ambition, and would stain 

537 



538 A METRICAL HISTORY OF NAPOLEON. 

Thy memory with avarice, lust, and crime, 

And to the keeping of all coming time 
Hand down the lie. But thou wast none of such ; 

But Freedom's chosen minister. The world 
Had need that one like thee should touch 

Its withered heart ; and when old thrones were 
hurled 
Beneath thy feet, and kings did prostrate fall, 

And crowns were harvested to grace thy brow, 
Man was the winner. Let who doubts, recall 

What Europe was, and mark what it is now. 



THE END. 



